


The Red Circle

by Jolie_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Drama, Future Fic, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04, Screenplay/Script Format, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Suspense, casefic, extra episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-01-23 14:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12509032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: 221B Baker St is restored to its former glory, clients are once again welcome, and Sherlock and John continue their detective work as if nothing has changed - or has it?The case of the very strange behaviour of Mrs Warren’s new lodger seems harmless enough to start with. But before they know it, Sherlock and John are caught up in the web of a ruthless crime syndicate that is only waiting to turn their hunters into the hunted.A post-season 4 extra episode, inspired by the montage at the end of “The Final Problem”.Rated M for mature themes and violence.Gen; no pairings.Comments contain spoilers!!!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again, one more time. 
> 
> Thank you to all of my fandom friends and regular readers who have heard me say “yes, it IS coming” at some point during the past six (!) months and who are still reading this now. I’m hugely honoured by your patience. 
> 
> This story starts between the events of “The Six Thatchers” and “The Lying Detective”, but the bulk of it takes place roughly six months later, after the main events of “The Final Problem”.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _ **Night time. A street in Central London -** _ _not a busy thoroughfare, but a dark side street lined with nondescript modern buildings housing shops and offices. Occasional gaps in the facades serve as gateways into underground car parks. There’s a dental clinic, a branch bank, a real estate agent’s, and a ballet school named Kensington School of Dance, as proclaimed by the brightly lit red sign above the dark entrance. It has a sweeping rendition of the letter “D” in the word “Dance”, circling all around itself like in the @ symbol. All these places are closed, with the doors locked and the shutters down, as if quietly recouping for another busy day._

_On the opposite side of the street, on its corner, is the only building that’s truly worth a second look. It's also the only place where there are any signs of human activity at this hour. At least a century older than its surroundings, it houses a traditional pub called The Bloodhound, with brightly lit lattice windows and vintage blackboards on either side of the entrance advertising fine ales and today’s specials. The pub sign above the door depicts the eponymous dog chasing full tilt after a stag, tongue lolling._

_The door bangs open, and for a moment, light and merry noise – snatches of conversation and boisterous laughter - stream out of the pub onto the street. The door emits a tangle of five people, men and women in the semi-formal dress of office workers, but all now a little worse for wear after clearly more than one after-work drink each. One of the men is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard, distinctive by his silver-grey hair. Himself upright, Lestrade has another man clinging rather clumsily to his arm, who is giggling in a half-embarrassed, half irresistibly-amused way as he tries to find his feet: Detective Inspector Dimmock, his usually accurately parted mouse-brown hair now rather mussy, face flushed red, tie hanging loose, long past the point of a dignified departure from the scene of the evening’s entertainment._

_Dimmock is supported on his other side by yet another of Scotland Yard’s brightest minds among the senior officers: Detective Inspector Stella Hopkins, teetering dangerously on high heels as Dimmock leans heavily on her. Bringing up the rear are two more officers, also in plain clothes: another grey-haired man and a brunette woman._

LESTRADE _(talking over Dimmock’s head to Stella Hopkins):_ Let’s find him a cab, all right?

HOPKINS _(with a long-suffering sigh):_ Oh yes, _please._ _(To the lumbering Dimmock, nudging him along)_ Go on, let’s get you home.

_Dimmock tightens his hold on her arm, and gives her a - totally uncharacteristic - leering smile._

DIMMOCK: Your home or mine?

HOPKINS _(resolutely):_ Don’t be stupid!

LESTRADE _(impatiently):_ Pull yourself together, Paul. Turning forty-six doesn’t excuse _everything._

_The little group turns towards the end of the street, in the direction of the main road. But just then, behind their backs, there is the sudden noise of a car engine being revved up almost aggressively, followed a moment later by the ugly crashing sound of dented metal and splintering plastic. The five officers turn around, all of them – even Dimmock – immediately alert. A sleek black saloon car with tinted windows has just exited the underground car park beneath the Kensington School of Dance at high speed, and on turning into the road has hit the rear of another car parked at the kerb, smashing one of its lights. But instead of stopping, the driver immediately goes into reverse and then swerves around the parked vehicle, clearly intent on getting away undetected._

LESTRADE and HOPKINS _(as one):_ Oh no you don’t!

_They dump their drunk colleague unceremoniously into the arms of their companions, and with a few steps they’re out in the middle of the road, side by side, their warrant cards in their raised hands, facing down the approaching car with an air of authority that is impossible to ignore. The car comes to a sudden halt, tyres screeching, not three yards from where they’re standing._

 

* * *

 

 _**A little later, in the same street,** _ _the car that Greg Lestrade and Stella Hopkins have stopped is still stationary in the middle of the road. Right behind it, a marked police car has pulled up, and several uniformed officers have taken over the scene of the accident. One, with a camera, is documenting the damage on the parked vehicle, while another is at the open window of the saloon car, apparently talking to the driver inside. Now that the situation is under control, Greg and Stella have retreated to the pavement and are watching from the distance while their uniformed colleagues do their work. Dimmock, who seems to have passed from the giggling stage to that of quiet misery within the last few minutes, is sitting on the edge of the kerb, clutching his head with both hands and looking like he might be sick any moment. His other two colleagues are at his side, patting his shoulders in rather helpless gestures of comfort._

_The constable who was at the car window now walks up to Greg and Stella, holding a passport emblazoned with the image of a golden double-headed imperial eagle. He looks rather uncomfortable._

CONSTABLE _(to Lestrade):_ Not quite sure what to do, sir. Diplomatic passport.

LESTRADE _(taking the document):_ Who, the driver?

CONSTABLE: No. The one who does the talking.

_Lestrade glances towards the car, then at the constable, then at the car again. As he approaches it, with Stella behind him, the rear window on the driver’s side is lowered. Inside sits a grey-haired, rather big man, dressed in an expensive suit and with a highly irritated expression on his face. Next to him is a teenage girl who seems completely absorbed in whatever is on the screen of her flashy phone. The man immediately addresses the two senior officers as they appear at his window._

MAN _(with a slight Slavic accent, annoyed):_ I need to take my daughter home. What is it that is taking your men so long?

_Back on the pavement, the other male detective at Dimmock’s side has straightened up, and is looking across at the car now, too._

MALE DETECTIVE _(under his breath):_ Bloody Russians. Strutting about like they own the place.

FEMALE DETECTIVE _(sarcastically):_ Well, technically they do. All the pretty parts, at any rate.

_Back at the car, Lestrade looks at the open passport in his hand, then up again at its owner, and then across to the teenage girl. Even though she looks no older than thirteen or fourteen, she’s dressed like an adult for a night out, with heavy makeup, a miniskirt and a tight-fitting halter top made of some shiny material. Large earrings dangle from her ears, and a mane of long hair dyed blonde falls over her face. Her eyes remain glued to the screen of her phone._

LESTRADE _(to the man, with a rather sceptical undertone):_ This is your daughter?

MAN: Yes, of course. As stated in the passport. _(He turns to the girl, smiling rather unpleasantly.)_ Say hello to the police, Natalia.

_The girl finally raises her eyes from her phone. They have a rather vacant look to them, and it takes her a moment to focus them on Lestrade’s face. There is no fear nor anger nor embarrassment in them, not even a spark of recognition – no emotion at all._

GIRL _(after a moment, in a completely toneless, almost robotic voice):_ Hello.

_There is an uncomfortable silence. Then Lestrade sighs almost imperceptibly, hands the passport back to the man in the car, and takes a step backwards to indicate that they’re free to go._

HOPKINS _(at Lestrade’s shoulder, under her breath):_ That doesn’t feel right, does it?

LESTRADE _(equally quietly):_ No.

_The car drives past them, the windows up again. Lestrade stands looking after it, with a look of grim determination on his face._

LESTRADE: I'll set someone on it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to imagine the opening credits rolling between this chapter and the next. 
> 
> As always, this story is not a WIP but already complete except for some minor polishing, and will be posted in regular instalments over the course of the coming weeks. Expect an update every couple of days. 
> 
> All feedback is endlessly appreciated! :)   
> We can get _very_ chatty in the comments section sometimes but please don't be intimidated - just jump right in if you like to make a comment of your own! 
> 
> Cover art by the fabulous [RubraSaetaFictor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor), without whose constant encouragement this story would never have seen the light of day.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Several months after the events of "The Final Problem"** _

****

* * *

 

 **_221B Baker Street. The – fully restored - sitting room, around lunchtime on an ordinary Thursday,_ ** _or what passes for ordinary at that address. The door leading to the hall and the stairs is open, and there’s the muted sound of activity from below - doors opening and closing, and Mrs Hudson’s voice, in conversation with someone._

_Sherlock Holmes, in his customary dark suit, is seated at the desk-cum-dining table between the two windows. On the desk in front of him, on top of the usual clutter, is a long sword, with a narrow steel blade and a bell guard that curves around the handle. The black leather band that used to cover the handle hangs loose, and Sherlock is busy reattaching it with fastidious precision, the blade catching the light as he turns it in slow circles._

_Meanwhile, John Watson is in the kitchen, hunting through the cupboards for a clean mug. He has apparently only just arrived, since he’s still got his jacket on. On the worktop, the electric kettle is starting to boil.  
_

JOHN _(calling over his shoulder):_ And what case exactly does that thing come from?

SHERLOCK _(without looking up from his task):_ Still ongoing.

_John finds a mug, and puts a teabag in it._

JOHN: The Mystery of the Unravelling Rapier?

SHERLOCK: Sabre.

_John turns to look. The weapon in Sherlock’s hands is indeed a sabre, but a plain modern sports version rather than an ornate, historic affair. When Sherlock doesn’t elaborate, John shrugs. A moment later, just as the kettle switches itself off with a faint ping, there is a resolute knock on the frame of the open sitting room door, and an unfamiliar female voice can be heard calling out. Apparently the noise of the kettle has masked the sound of her footsteps on the stair_

WOMAN: ‘Scuse me?

_Sherlock glances up at the newcomer. The visitor is a thickset woman around fifty, with short hair dyed auburn and a doughy, rather flushed face. She’s wearing a bright high-vis vest over a dark blue shirt and red tie - clearly the uniform of a supermarket delivery driver. Sherlock immediately waves her away._

SHERLOCK: Wrong number. Leave your crates downstairs, Mrs Hudson will go through the list with you.

_The woman looks surprised for a moment, but she stands her ground._

WOMAN: Ain’t you Mr Holmes, the famous detective?

SHERLOCK _(his eyes already back on his repair work):_ Is that what she put on the order form?

_John comes walking out of the kitchen. He looks the woman up and down in quick appraisal, then addresses his friend in a mildly disapproving tone._

JOHN: Sherlock, that’s no way to speak to a new client.

_Sherlock raises his head, looking genuinely surprised._

SHERLOCK: What?

JOHN _(amused):_ Come on. Any famous detective could tell that this lady has just replaced her usual lunch break with a quick bite from a bakery, so she could squeeze in a private consultation with you. I’d say that’s perfectly obvious from the fact that she’s carrying only a handbag, rather than grocery crates, and from the fact that she’s got a dusting of icing sugar and crumbs on the front of her vest. _(To the woman, straight-faced)_ Sorry, that was _his_ part, actually.

_The woman stares at John, eyes wide with surprise. Then she fully realises what he’s just said, switches the handbag she’s indeed holding to her left hand and starts hastily brushing the traces of her meal off her uniform with her right. Sherlock meanwhile takes a better look at her to verify John’s deductions, and ends up decidedly impressed, too, in spite of a rather transparent attempt of hiding it behind a scowl. John, very content with himself, invites the woman into the room with a friendly gesture of his hand._

JOHN: Well, come in, Mrs - ?

_He inclines his head towards the woman with a questioning frown, giving her the chance to introduce herself._

WOMAN _(a little stiffly):_ Warren. Alice Warren.

_She doesn't move, but looks across at Sherlock instead. He finishes his task, then pushes his chair back, gets to his feet, and lets the yard-long blade swish experimentally through the air a couple of times to test his grip. Mrs Warren flinches, and then positively jumps when Sherlock suddenly points the weapon straight at her, striking a “your money or your life” pose that would have impressed any 18 th century highwayman. _

SHERLOCK: Sum up your business in five words or less.

_John, alarmed, takes a step forward as if to intervene, but it turns out that Mrs Warren is not so easily intimidated._

MRS WARREN _(to Sherlock, defiantly):_ That’s easy, innit?

SHERLOCK _(unimpressed):_ Impress me.

MRS WARREN: My lodger’s a weirdo.

_There’s a surprised silence. Then Sherlock sighs dramatically, throws the sabre onto the coffee table, where it lands with a clatter, and points his visitor straight back out of the door._

SHERLOCK: You _do_ have the wrong number. 221A, downstairs. I’m sure Mrs Hudson will be delighted to start a self-help group with you.

_John laughs outright and pulls up a chair for their client instead._

JOHN (to Mrs Warren): And that’s just his way of saying he’s dying to hear your story.

_Mrs Warren gives Sherlock a rather irritated look, but then walks over and lowers herself into the visitor's chair, pulling her handbag onto her lap. It’s revealed to be a rather girly, purple fringed and sequined faux-leather affair that’s in strange contrast with the plain pragmatism of her uniform._

MRS WARREN _(to John):_ D’you actually practice that double act thing?

JOHN _(earnestly):_ We’ve spent years perfecting it. 

_He settles down in his armchair by the fireplace, smiling expectantly at their guest. Mrs Warren fumbles with the zipper and then rummages in the pockets of her bag for a tissue to wipe her sweaty face and brow with. Then she clears her throat, and looks over her shoulder whether Sherlock is going to join them or not. Apparently not, since he has sat back down at the desk and booted up his laptop._

JOHN _(to Mrs Warren, in a politely encouraging tone):_ Now, what can we do for you?

MRS WARREN _(a little hesitantly):_ Well – I - _(She gestures at her uniform.)_ I do grocery deliveries as my day job, but about a year ago -

SHERLOCK _(from his place at the desk, while typing on his computer):_ \- you got a divorce, and your older children moved out around the same time, making the house you own too big and too costly for you and your teenage daughter to maintain alone. So you’ve started taking in lodgers.

MRS WARREN _(turning around in her chair, astonished):_ How d’you know that?

SHERLOCK: You insult me, Mrs Warren. _(He immediately launches into rapid-fire deduction mode.)_ Your recent divorce is evident from the remaining traces of a ring once habitually worn on your left hand. That, and your job which pays hardly more than the minimum wage, argue an urgent need for a supplementary income. Your limited means are also manifest in the cheap quality of the handbag you’re holding. _(Mrs Warren’s eyes inadvertently go to the bag on her lap. Meanwhile, the deductions are coming still faster.)_ Your accent says Londoner by birth, but you’ve adopted some speech patterns that indicate both an ethnically diverse neighbourhood and close daily contact with the multicultural slang used by the younger generation, so that’s one child of yours still living at home. Since you're already at the age of textbook menopausal hot flashes, it seems safe to assume that this child is already a teenager or young adult, too.

MRS WARREN: How d’you know I’ve got more than the one?

_Again, she dabs at her brow with the tissue. Sherlock’s rather offensive comment on the reason why seems to have gone straight over her head._

SHERLOCK: The departure of your husband alone wouldn’t have left any bedrooms in your house free to be let, would it?

MRS WARREN _(stubbornly):_ And how d’you know my youngest is a girl?

SHERLOCK _(nodding at the handbag):_ Because that handbag isn’t yours.

_John, who has followed this entire exchange with the complacency of someone who still enjoys the show although he’s seen the magician perform his tricks a hundred times before, perks up his ears at this. Apparently even he didn’t see that one coming._

MRS WARREN _(clutching her bag more firmly):_ What -

SHERLOCK _(placidly):_ Your lack of familiarity with the fastening mechanism and with the alignment of its compartments, when you were looking for a tissue just now -  dead giveaway. Besides, it’s highly likely that you don’t usually carry a handbag at all, since most activities you're engaged in on your delivery tour require the use of both hands. I may be making rather narrow-minded assumptions when I propose that the person whose bag you’ve borrowed today is a girl rather than a boy, but I’m sure I have consumer statistics on my side there.

_There is a silence while Mrs Warren tries to digest all of this. Then suddenly, John speaks up in a rather disapproving tone._

JOHN: That's cheating, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK _(innocently):_ What is?

JOHN _(with a nod at the open computer):_ You're Googling her.

SHERLOCK: No, I’m not. _(With disarming honesty)_ Or rather I am, but without success. No online presence, surprisingly.

MRS WARREN _(defensively):_ Yeah, I know, Chantelle keeps saying we can’t just rely on the sign in the window. Everyone’s online these days. But I’m no good with computers. _(To John)_ Chantelle loves your blog though. Talks about it all day. It was her idea to call you in. _(With a sceptical glance at Sherlock)_ And now she’ll be pretty shirty that I went without her. _(Under her breath.)_ Teenagers.

_Sherlock abruptly snaps the laptop shut, rises from his place at the desk, and moves over to sit in his own armchair opposite John's. The other two look at him expectantly, but he merely puts the tips of his fingers together in front of him in a pensive attitude and doesn't join the conversation. John takes it on himself to keep it going._

JOHN _(to Mrs Warren):_ So - how do you find your lodgers, if you’re not online?

MRS WARREN: There’s a language school just two bus stops down the road, and they’ve got me on their accommodation list. So I usually get young people from there, mostly foreigners. My place is handy, just off the A5 and close to Hendon station, and the price is reasonable.

JOHN _(taking his little black notebook out of his back pocket):_ What’s the address?

MRS WARREN: No. 14 Orme Street, NW9. We call it “The Warren”.

_Sherlock opens his mouth as if to make a derisive comment on the originality of that name, but a warning frown from John stops him._

JOHN _(to Mrs Warren):_ How many rooms are there?

MRS WARREN: To let, you mean? Two singles on the second floor and another at the top of the house. The two on the second floor share a bathroom. The one above them has its own little en suite that we built in new. There’s a kitchenette up there, too, in what used to be a box room. That's for all lodgers to use.

JOHN: Quite a big house, in all.

MRS WARREN: I know, yeah. After Mr Warren upped and left with that _slut_ – _(Her face contorts for a moment at the memory, and she takes a deep breath before she continues in a calmer tone.)_ \- and then the twins moved out, too - I ended up having trouble just getting it heated in winter, not to mention repairs and such. Taking in lodgers has worked really well. _(Her face clouds over.)_ So far.

JOHN: And now one of them's making trouble? Tell us about that, won't you?

_Mrs Warren wipes her sweaty face yet again, but then resumes her tale. John is still listening attentively. With Sherlock, it’s impossible to say._

MRS WARREN: Couple of days ago, on Monday, this guy came round to ask for a room for a week. Big, heavy guy, but young, another student, I thought. Foreign, too - pretty bad English. Called himself André. The attic room was free, so I showed it to him. He looked around, and out the window like he expected a view, and then gulped when I told him the price. But he paid down the rent and a deposit in cash there and then. He said he’d bring his stuff and move in later that night, but not to wait up, he’d manage. I didn’t mind either way. He got his key and could let himself in any time he wanted.

JOHN: And did he move in, like he said?

MRS WARREN: Yeah, I heard him stomping up the stairs with his luggage, close on midnight. I was already in bed, but it’s an old house, the stairs creak. Couldn’t miss it.

JOHN: But – sorry, I don't see what the trouble is.

MRS WARREN _(pointedly)_ : The trouble is, he went into his room - and he hasn’t left it since! Not for a moment! For three days, I ask you!

_She looks triumphantly from John to Sherlock, as if expecting them both to gape in wonder at this revelation. Neither of them does her the favour._

JOHN: And you’re sure he’s still in the room?

MRS WARREN: Yes! Well, Chantelle and I are out at school and at work during the day, of course, so we couldn’t swear to it. But there’s two Taiwanese girls staying in the rooms below his. They’re studying at home all day for some language exam, and they say he never leaves.

SHERLOCK _(a little sarcastically):_ Maybe he’s studying for the same exam?

MRS WARREN: But he’s got to come out and eat some time, don’t he? But they say they never see him in the kitchenette. No food of his in the fridge neither. How does that work, for days on end?

_A corner of Sherlock’s mouth goes up in a little derisive smirk._

JOHN ( _alarmed):_ But that means he could be in trouble. _(To Sherlock)_ A medical emergency, and he hasn’t managed to call for help?

MRS WARREN _(quickly):_ No, no, I'm sure he's fine that way. He’s up and about. The girls hear him flitting about the room all the time, and turning the taps on and off in the bathroom, and flushing the loo, and all that. Day and night, actually. No rhyme or reason to it. That makes it just… creepy, like. Like a human mouse, scurrying above our heads. It drives the girls crazy. And I’ve got some sort of responsibility, don’t I? Can’t have a nutcase door to door with my girls. Besides, there’s stuff I want to talk to him about.

JOHN: Like - ?  
  
MRS WARREN _(indignantly):_ Like not to leave the skylight on the landing open. Which he did the night he moved in. Next morning, there was a puddle on the carpet from the rain. Can’t have that. And he hasn’t returned my drain cleaner either.

SHERLOCK _(visibly perking up his ears):_ Drain cleaner?

MRS WARREN: Yeah, I know there was a bottle under the sink up in the kitchenette, and I asked Chantelle to get it for me when I needed it downstairs the other day, but it was gone.

SHERLOCK _(sharply):_ What type of drain cleaner?

MRS WARREN: How d’you mean?  
  
SHERLOCK: Alkaline? Acidic? Enzymatic?

MRS WARREN _(after a moment, at a loss):_ From Homebase, I think.

_Sherlock rolls his eyes._

SHERLOCK: The room’s fully furnished?

MRS WARREN: Just basics. Bed, table, chairs, chest of drawers, kettle for tea, that sort of thing.

SHERLOCK: There’s only one window to the room?

MRS WARREN: Yeah, there’s a small dormer window. That’s another reason I know he’s still in there, by the way. I went outside last night to see if the light was on, and it was.

 _Sherlock nods, as if he expected this. Then he seems to sink straight back into his previous reverie. After a moment of general silence, Mrs Warren straightens up in her chair._  
  
MRS WARREN _(to Sherlock):_ So, what am I s’posed to do?

SHERLOCK _(distractedly):_ What?

MRS WARREN: What should I do about him?  
  
SHERLOCK _(in a rather off-hand tone):_ Oh, nothing. I’m sure the situation will resolve itself as soon as his term of lease runs out and he moves out. _(Seeing Mrs Warren looking very unsatisfied, he leans back with a sigh.)_ There may be any number of reasons why your lodger prefers to keep to his room, Mrs Warren, and there’s nothing to indicate that it must be criminal, or dangerous, or in any way your business at all. As a matter of fact, if _I_ were your lodger, you often wouldn’t see me for weeks on end, and I would thank you kindly not to ask me why.

MRS WARREN: I know, but this is - it’s just so damn odd. I swear, if the girls from Taiwan weren't leaving on Saturday anyway, they'd have found themselves a new place to stay by now, and no blame on them. I mean, what’s he hiding for? What’s he done? What’s he _gonna_ do? _(Her voice takes on an accusatory edge.)_ What if he’s a terrorist, and he’s building a bomb up there?

SHERLOCK _(with barely disguised impatience):_ Mrs Warren, as long as he doesn’t behave in a threatening or unreasonable or disruptive way, and pays his rent, the law’s on his side, and there's little I can do in the matter to be of service to you. Call the police’s anti-terrorism hotline by all means if it makes you feel better, but don’t come complaining to me if all you get is a reprimand for wasting their resources.

_He turns towards the bookshelf to the right of his chair, and reaches out to pick up one of the heavy volumes on it. The consultation is clearly over. Mrs Warren, scandalised, turns to John, but John only responds with an apologetic shrug._

MRS WARREN _(to John, still in the same accusatory tone):_ That really the best he can do?

JOHN _(regretfully):_ No, but you know what they say about leading a horse to water. _(In a reassuring tone)_ He doesn't charge when he rejects a case, though, so you needn't worry about that.

_Mrs Warren glances at Sherlock, deeply disappointed. He looks back at her blankly, as if surprised that she's even still there, a chemistry textbook open on his lap. John clears his throat to catch his friend's attention. When he's got it, he starts silently mouthing words at him._

JOHN _(in pantomime):_ But - if - there - are - any -

SHERLOCK _(catching on):_ Oh, right. _(To Mrs Warren, rattling the words off like something he’s been made to learn by rote)_ But if there are any new developments that give you further cause for concern, feel free to contact me again any time.  
  
_He adds a glaringly insincere smile, and then immerses himself in his book._

_Mrs Warren shakes her head at him, but she lets herself be escorted out of the room by John._

_John returns alone a moment later, standing undecided in the open sitting room door, as if he’s making up his mind whether to preach a sermon on the sin of rudeness to clients, or to just let it go. But Sherlock takes the decision out of his hands. The moment the front door downstairs falls shut, he springs to life, drops his book carelessly onto the floor, and bounds across the room to where his coat hangs behind the door, suddenly quivering with energy and enterprise._

SHERLOCK _(happily):_ You up for a little excursion to West Hendon, John? It’s been ages since we had such a neat little mystery!

_John rolls his eyes, but then – of course – he does let it go. He checks his watch.  
_

JOHN: Half an hour?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently, with his coat already half on):_ What?

JOHN: Give us half an hour til nap time's over. _(With a pointed look at his friend)_ Cranky baby or cranky detective? Easy choice. _  
_

_Sherlock rolls his eyes and starts getting back out of his coat. But just as John walks over into the kitchen, presumably to now treat himself to the cup of tea he was interrupted making earlier in the scene, there's a whining noise from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. It’s a baby's voice, low and sleepy at first, but getting louder and more awake and more insistent by the second._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, grumpily):_ All right, you win. _(He changes course, and heads straight into the passage beyond the kitchen to retrieve his awaking daughter. Over his shoulder)_ I swear you _plan_ this stuff, you two!

_Sherlock, who has already got back into his coat, puts up the collar and smiles._


	3. Chapter 3

**_Orme Street, West Hendon,_ ** _an hour or so later. It’s a small residential street in one of the less privileged London neighbourhoods, tucked away in a corner between the busy A5 to the west and the tracks of a Thameslink railway line and the even busier M1 to the east. The traffic on both road and rail is a constant background hum. Modest terraced houses line the street on both sides, a lot of which have seen better times. There’s little greenery in the tiny front yards, and the prevailing impression of the houses is that of peeling paint on the facades and dusty, yellowing curtains behind the windows. Some properties are even boarded up. But there are signs of hope, too, as at the street corner where the first house in the row is covered entirely in scaffolding for renovation work. A solitary cat is prowling around the rubbish bins outside. For a moment, the cat is the only thing that moves. But then Sherlock and John come turning the corner, walking side by side down the narrow pavement. John is carrying his baby daughter Rosie on his shoulders, holding firmly on to her short legs as she - wide awake now - bounces excitedly up and down, the bobble on her woollen hat bouncing along in time. All three of them are wrapped up warm against the cold._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ Remind me again why you couldn’t tell Mrs W that we’re taking her case after all.

SHERLOCK: We’re not taking her case. I’m not sure it’s a case at all. We’re just making up our minds, and then we'll be gone again long before the Warrens get back home. 

JOHN _(mischievously):_ Are you afraid of running into that fangirl daughter of hers?

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ With her taste in accessories, you’d better be, too.

_They walk on._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ What if this André guy _is_ a terrorist?

SHERLOCK: Then he’d have taken great care to behave just like any other language student, rather than make his landlady and fellow lodgers suspicious with such a marked lack of sociability. _(He halts.)_ Here we are. Number 14.

_No. 14 - The Warren - is a narrow house built of mud-yellow brick. It towers above its neighbours on either side, having one more storey than is usual in the area. A “Rooms To Let” sign has been put up in the bay window on the ground floor. Instinctively, both Sherlock and John's eyes go up straight to the top floor, but the single dormer window of the attic room that Mrs Warren mentioned to them earlier isn't visible from the street. On this side of the sloping roof, there's only a small skylight that gives access to the chimney. Sherlock takes out his phone and pulls up a satellite image of the area._

SHERLOCK: If we double back around the corner, there's some sort of yard there that should give us a view of the back of the house.

JOHN: Not private property, I hope. Wouldn't want my daughter arrested for trespass before her first birthday.

SHERLOCK _(straight-faced):_ Shall we come back in March?

_He reaches up with a leather-gloved hand. Rosie immediately clasps it with her own chubby little fist, giggling._

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ Come on, Rosie. We're gonna solve the Adventure of the Weird Lodger!

* * *

  _  
_

**_The yard behind The Warren_ ** _, a moment later. In the mouth of the passage that leads into the yard from the adjoining street, Sherlock and John stand contemplating the scene. It’s entirely deserted except for them, and of course Rosie who is beginning to wriggle around impatiently on John's shoulders._

_If Orme Street was cheerless on its front side, this is worse. The yard is a small, dreary place, paved with concrete, its main function apparently being home to half a dozen wheelie bins belonging to the surrounding houses. Among these, No. 14 Orme Street is yet again conspicuous by its height. The dormer window in the roof is clearly visible. There's no light and no sign of life behind it. But it’s too far up and the angle is too steep to actually see into the room._

_Exactly opposite the garden wall of No. 14 is a windowless single-storey building with a pair of large garage doors in it. Practically every inch of its surface is covered in ugly graffiti tags. To the right of the garage building, a mesh wire fence marks the boundary with the next yard. The ground is strewn with scraps of old newspaper, and muddy puddles have accumulated in the potholes. The biggest one, right in front of the garage doors, is shining with an unhealthy rainbow-coloured coating._

JOHN _(looking around, resigned):_ There’s not much more to see from this side, is there?

SHERLOCK: That's a question of perspective, John.

JOHN _(a little testily):_ Well, from the perspective of an ordinary mortal, the only sure way of finding out what Mrs Warren's weird lodger is up to is knock on the front door, march up there and actually ask him.

SHERLOCK _(with a slight smile):_ But that would be cheating. Like Googling one's clients, you know.

_John snorts. Then he lowers his daughter, who is getting seriously bored by now, to sit on his hip instead. She starts toying with the zipper of his coat._

SHERLOCK: You should get that carrier thing out again.

_He takes a few steps forward, which brings him into the middle of the yard, then turns slowly on the spot, as if trying to memorise a 360 degree view of the place. When he faces the garage doors, however, he comes to an abrupt halt. Above the doors, on the concrete lintel, someone has scribbled a curious row of eight black stick figures, each about the height of a hand. They are depicted in different positions. Some have their arms raised; some have a leg raised, or appear to be jumping or dancing; and the one on the left end of the row is even standing on its head. On closer inspection, the second, the fifth and the eighth man are identical. All the others are different. They add a strangely cheerful note to the bleak surroundings._

_Sherlock smiles to himself, and steps up for a better look at the images. They're above his eye level. When he takes off his glove and reaches up, he can only just touch them. A small clump of the black writing material comes off and stains his fingertips. John, who has idled over to join his friend, speaks up behind his back._

JOHN: Look, Rosie. Dancing men.

_He points. Rosie looks somewhere else entirely._

SHERLOCK _(glancing over his shoulder at the buildings behind them):_ Maybe they're secret hieroglyphs whose meaning is only known to the sworn members of the West Hendon Motorcycle Club.

JOHN: What? Looks just like kids having fun, to me.

SHERLOCK _(raising one eyebrow):_ Very tall kids.

_John measures the height of the lintel with his eyes. He himself could probably not reach it even on tiptoe._

JOHN _(frowning):_ Okay. What was that about motorcycle clubs?

SHERLOCK _(with a long-suffering sigh):_ John, it really can't have escaped your notice that we're standing in front of an unofficial motorcycle tuning shop?

JOHN _(taken aback):_ We – what?

_He looks a little sheepishly at the – firmly closed and unmarked – doors. Then his eyes travel down to the ground, and fix on the oily puddle. He takes a step back to better survey the scene._

JOHN _(pointing with his chin):_ Single tyre tracks leading from the puddle to the doors?

SHERLOCK: And - ?

JOHN: Too much residue of motor oil on the ground to come from one random oil change alone?

SHERLOCK _(to Rosie, gravely):_ Your dad's a clever man, Rosie.

JOHN _(peeved):_ No, he just spends too much time in dubious company. Is it relevant?

SHERLOCK: At this stage, anything could be.

 _He whips out his phone and takes a photograph of the row of dancing men._  
  
JOHN: I thought you weren't even sure this _is_ a case.

_Sherlock evades the question by proceeding to take close-ups of each man individually, when suddenly a loud, annoyed voice speaks up behind their backs._

MALE VOICE: Oy! What'cha doin' 'ere?

_Sherlock and John turn, slightly alarmed. Out of the passage to the street, a big, broad-shouldered man comes striding towards them. His appearance is entirely in tune with their recent deductions. His head is bald, which makes it hard to estimate his age. The upper half of his face is hidden behind a pair of large mirrored sunglasses, and the lower half of his face is hidden by a long, flaming red beard that comes down to mid-chest. He wears leather trousers, a leather vest over a chequered workman's shirt, and heavy black boots. His rolled-up sleeves reveal muscular forearms covered in tattoos. Rosie makes a distressed little noise at the sight, and hides her face against her father's shoulder._

MAN _(rather aggressively):_ If you're from the bleedin’ Labour Inspectorate, you can bugger off right now. _(Gesturing at the closed doors)_ Just my little 'obby, right?

SHERLOCK _(with a knowing smile):_ Of course. Same as mine.

MAN _(looking Sherlock up and down sceptically):_ You sure, mate?

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. I have a vintage Triumph Bonneville in a shed somewhere, but I'm afraid it needs more skilled hands than mine to restore it to its former glory.

MAN _(in a very different tone, intrigued):_ Do you now... _(He takes off his sunglasses, revealing watery blue eyes.)_ How d'you know 'bout me, though?

SHERLOCK _(airily):_ Oh, you've got raving reviews on the SuperBike website.

MAN _(in flattered surprise):_ Do I? Bloody ‘ell. ( _He pockets his sunglasses, and holds out a large, none-too-clean hand.)_ Shinwell Johnson. Pleased to meet'cha.

_He shakes hands with Sherlock, and then also with John, who hastily frees a hand of his own to return the courtesy. Rosie, still very suspicious of the tough-looking stranger, keeps her face turned away. Peering over her father's shoulder, she suddenly starts making excited noises. John turns to see what's caught her attention. In the neighbouring yard, behind the mesh wire fence, a couple of slightly dishevelled-looking chickens have appeared. They come clucking across the bare earth of their enclosure, and start pecking at the sparse blades of grass that are struggling to survive at the foot of one of the fence posts. John, glad to have an excuse to get his daughter away from the intimidating sight of Shinwell Johnson, walks over to the fence and puts Rosie down. Holding onto the wire, she can stand on her own two feet. She makes delighted noises at the feathered newcomers. John squats down next to her._

_Meanwhile, Shinwell Johnson has unlocked the garage doors and pulled them open, revealing a fully equipped motorcycle workshop, with all kinds of tools and supplies and spare parts neatly ranged in racks and on shelves all around the bare walls, and with no less than three heavy motorbikes waiting for repairs in the middle of the room._

SHERLOCK _(to Johnson, gesturing casually up at the dancing men):_ What's that, by the way? Neighbours' kids making a mess?

JOHNSON _(glancing up, grumpily):_ All the time. Snotty noses, the lot of 'em. Though the older ones are worse. The ones with the spray cans, I mean. I've given up scrapin' and scrubbin', or I'd be doin' nothin' else all day.

SHERLOCK _(still in the same casual tone):_ Do you come in every day?

JOHNSON: If I can. I live close. _(Rubbing his hands expectantly)_ Right, you said you got a job for me?

 

* * *

  
**_Some minutes later,_** _Sherlock and John are walking back out of Shinwell Johnson’s yard. Rosie has reclaimed her lofty perch on her father’s shoulders. Sherlock is busy typing on his phone as he walks._

JOHN _(in an undertone):_ What if he realises that he _doesn't_ have raving online reviews? I mean, before we went in there, we didn't even know that -

_Sherlock doesn't answer for a moment. He keeps typing furiously, then with a little flourish hits a final button._

SHERLOCK _(contentedly):_ He's got them now.

JOHN _(drily):_ Don't tell me that mythical motorbike of yours is real, too.

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ How do you know it isn’t?

_They walk on._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ So, _do_ we have a case?

SHERLOCK: Tell me what you found the most striking aspect of Mrs Warren's story, John.

_John frowns, trying to recall the details of the conversation with the worried landlady._

JOHN: Well – I thought Mrs Warren was pretty careless, actually, for all her protectiveness towards the girls. I mean, give a guy a key to your house without even asking his full name? Though she might have meant to get the paperwork sorted once he'd moved in. Just never got a chance.

_Sherlock gives John a disappointed sideways look._

JOHN _(with a sigh):_ All right. I'd also like to know what he tried to dispose of down the drain that clogged it straight away.

SHERLOCK: Better.

JOHN _(tetchily):_ Well, what _is_ the most striking aspect? 

SHERLOCK _(smiling again):_ How he accomplished such an astonishing weight loss in just one night, of course.


	4. Chapter 4

_**The interior of a sports hall somewhere in London**_ _ **, later on the same day.** _ _It has the appearance of a perfectly ordinary sports centre, purpose-built and brightly lit, neither expensive nor exclusive nor special in any other way. The only unusual feature of the hall is that it is divided into separate sections by long but narrow strips of blue rubber flooring, about sixteen by two yards in size._

_On the foremost of these strips, two men are engaged in a fierce fencing bout. They’re of about equal height, but the full protective gear they're wearing - white jackets and breeches, gloves and black masks - render them completely unrecognisable. They’re moving back and forth at an impressive speed. The blades of the sabres they're wielding are no more than a blur as they launch their attacks, parry, and counter-attack. Since the hall is empty except for them, the only sounds to be heard are the clash of steel on steel, the rustle of their trainered feet flitting back and forth on the strip, and their heavy breathing behind the wire-netting of their masks. It’s clearly just a practice match - there is no referee present, and the electronic scoring board installed above the strip is switched off - but both opponents seem deadly serious about asking no quarter, and giving none either._

_After a while, however, it becomes obvious that the opponents are not evenly matched. The man on the left is clearly faster, more agile, and seems to score at least twice as many hits as the man on the right. As the bout progresses, the man on the right finds himself forced more and more onto the defensive. He parries the lunges aimed at him more slowly and less effectively by the minute, and his counter-attacks, though still accurate in technical execution, become rather half-hearted. His opponent mercilessly takes advantage, springing forward suddenly in a particularly vigorous attack. Their blades clash again, and then one of the weapons is spinning through the air and lands on the floor with a resounding clatter. The man on the right, taken completely by surprise, stumbles backwards, disarmed and defeated, loses his balance, and sits down heavily on his backside._

_In the silence that follows the sudden end of the bout, the man who is still standing lowers his own weapon, switches it to his left hand, and extends his right to help his fallen opponent back up. The offer is gratefully accepted. The defeated fencer scrambles back to his feet, then yanks off his heavy mask, revealing the brightly flushed, sweaty face and tousled sparse hair of none other than Mycroft Holmes._

MYCROFT _(breathlessly):_ All right. Enough for today.

_His opponent removes his mask as well, but with less undignified haste. Then he raises his weapon in an ironic fencer’s salute, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself - as pleased as only Sherlock Holmes can look when he’s got one up on his older brother._

SHERLOCK _(in a mock-disappointed tone):_ Already?

_Mycroft smiles grimly in return, retrieves his own weapon, and walks over to fall rather than sit down on one of the low benches ranged along the wall. He peels off his gloves, loosens the high collar of his jacket, picks up one of the two gym bottles that have been placed on the bench, and drains it almost in one go. His brother joins him, stretching out his long legs comfortably as he settles down. Up close, Sherlock is not as desperately exhausted as Mycroft, but he’s certainly worked up a sweat, too. He takes off his gloves as well, and brushes his damp hair off his forehead with the back of his hand._

MYCROFT _(disapprovingly):_ You’re enjoying this far too much.

SHERLOCK: Stop giving me reasons.

_Mycroft’s expression doesn’t soften._

MYCROFT: I appreciate your concern for my personal safety, brother dear. But of the many people who have a reason to wish to see me physically eliminated, how many do you think are going to challenge me to an actual duel in order to achieve that end?

_Sherlock picks up the other water bottle and takes a swig._

SHERLOCK _(earnestly):_ What’s the point of carrying a fancy sword stick, if all you can do with it is nick your own thumb? You cut a pitiful figure that night, Mycroft. You’d better do something about it before word gets around just how easy you’d be to kill.

MYCROFT _(sarcastically):_ And the best way to keep that secret is polishing me off in public twice a week? _(He gestures around the hall.)_ Anyone could get in here. Anyone could watch. Or worse.

SHERLOCK: We’ve been over this, haven’t we? Exclusive establishments attract attention. Private instructors gossip. The safest place to hide is in the middle of a crowd, Mycroft. Who would ever expect _you_ in a place like this? Besides, the lady and gentleman currently comprising your personal security detail are really enjoying their two hours off every Thursday.

MYCROFT _(with a sour look at his brother):_ I know. I can’t say I approve.

SHERLOCK _(with a wry curl of his lip):_ Can’t blame them for wanting to get some exercise, too.

_With a loud click, the door into the hall opens. A group of teenagers appears, also in fencing gear, carrying their masks and accompanied by an instructor. As their chatter fills the hall, the Holmes brothers exchange a look, gather up their equipment, and get ready to leave._

MYCROFT _(tucking his mask under his arm):_ I’d offer you a lift back into town, but I’ve got a plane to catch, and a long day of tedious negotiations ahead of me.

_He looks rather harassed at the prospect. Sherlock pushes the door out of the hall open with a flourish._

SHERLOCK _(maliciously):_ Well, enjoy Brussels!

MYCROFT _(walking past him out of the door, under his breath):_ I’d rather have a whole week of this.

_Sherlock doesn’t make even a token effort to conceal a broad grin. Mycroft lifts his chin, sniffs defiantly, and walks on with determined steps towards the changing rooms._

MYCROFT _(over his shoulder):_ And I didn’t just say that!

 

* * *

 

 _**221B Baker Street. The kitchen, on the next morning - Friday.** _ _Sherlock, already dressed as pristinely as ever, is seated at the kitchen table, peering intently into his microscope. As usual, the table is littered with scientific paraphernalia - glassware in various stages of cleanliness, tweezers, boxes of gloves, and a Bunsen burner rising out of the mess like a candelabra on a surrealistic dining table. Next to the microscope, Sherlock has set up his laptop, an open browser window displaying rows of thumbnail photographs of what look like wood samples._

_There’s a knock on the open sitting room door, and a moment later, John Watson pokes his head into the kitchen. He’s in his black jacket over a light grey shirt and brown cardigan, and carries a briefcase. He's clearly on his way to work._

JOHN: Morning. Is that a thing now? Dancing men all over the place?

_He gestures over his shoulder. In the sitting room, in front of the fireplace between their two armchairs, Sherlock has placed a solid wooden easel with a blackboard on it. The board is adorned with two rows of dancing stick figures, very similar to those they saw on Shinwell Johnson’s garage behind The Warren the day before. Propped up in front of the men is a printout of the photo Sherlock took of the original sample._

SHERLOCK _(without looking up from the microscope):_ I see Rosie's starting to settle in nicely at the nursery.

JOHN: Yeah, she's - _(Surprised)_ Hang on -

SHERLOCK _(his eyes still on his sample):_ She let you say bye-bye a full twenty-three minutes earlier than yesterday.

JOHN _(automatically checking his watch):_ Right, yeah. She’s discovered the rocking horse. I'll probably have trouble luring her away from it when I go pick her up. _(He jerks his head at the dancing men on the blackboard.)_ So, twenty-three extra minutes – care to bring me up to date?

SHERLOCK _(leaning back from his microscope):_ What? Oh, the code.

JOHN: _Is_ it a code then?

SHERLOCK: Almost certainly.

_He abandons his microscopy, and walks over into the sitting room. John, happy to accept the unspoken invitation, drops his bag onto the floor by his armchair and settles down in it. Then he reaches out and picks up the photo, studying it with his brows drawn together._

JOHN: So you think the dancing men have something to do with Mrs Warren's weird lodger?

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. He put them there.

JOHN: He – what? I thought he never leaves his room?

SHERLOCK: He barely ever entered that room, John. He’s certainly not in it now.

_John blinks in surprise. Sherlock, who has remained standing, starts pacing up and down in the space between the kitchen door and the desk between the windows, and launches into a lecture._

SHERLOCK: From our interview with Mrs Warren alone, it was already a foregone conclusion that the person whom the other people in the house can hear moving about in that room now is not the same person who rented the room in the first place. What we found when we went to see The Warren for ourselves merely confirmed it.

JOHN: _What?_

SHERLOCK: Mrs Warren may not be the most charming client we’ve ever had the fortune to act for, John, but there’s nothing wrong with her eyes and ears. There's no other explanation for what she saw and heard. Unbeknownst to the landlady, there has been a substitution of lodgers. _(He halts, and then abruptly sits down in his own chair opposite John.)_ Do you remember how she described this man André’s appearance?

JOHN _(thoughtfully):_ Young, she said, but big and heavy - _(He slaps his head to his forehead.)_ Ah, I see it now. That’s what you meant by “weight loss”, yesterday. If he “stomped” up the stairs on the night he moved in -

SHERLOCK _(with an appreciative smile):_ Exactly. Then he's highly unlikely to be the same person who’s “flitting” around above their heads now. “Like a human mouse”, as Mrs W called it so aptly.

JOHN _(sceptically):_ Some big men are surprisingly agile. Maybe he just rumbled up the stairs like that because he was weighed down with luggage.

SHERLOCK _(smiling still more broadly):_ You surpass yourself, John. He certainly was carrying a rather heavy burden up the stairs that night.

_He waits patiently for John to cotton on, and again, John doesn't disappoint._

JOHN: He _carried_ another person up there?

SHERLOCK: Wouldn't do to rent a single room, and then be caught bringing a companion, would it? There's a reason why he came at such a late hour, and why he took care to tell Mrs Warren beforehand not to bother to offer help. He wanted to make sure they wouldn't be observed. He couldn’t risk the steps of two pairs of feet being overheard, either. So yes, he must have carried the other one on his back.

JOHN: But how did he get back out then? Mrs Warren can’t have missed him going downstairs again.

SHERLOCK: The open skylight, of course, that Mrs Warren took such exception to on the next morning. Remember, Orme Street is a terrace. Nothing easier than to make his escape across the roofs, and Mrs Warren none the wiser.

_John pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, thinking._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ So if the true occupant of that room is a lot smaller and lighter than André - ? _(Sherlock nods in confirmation.)_ Then it could be a woman?

SHERLOCK: It's very likely a woman.

JOHN _(darkly):_ Then I can think of only one reason why a man would keep a woman locked in a room without anyone else knowing. And I don't like it at all.

SHERLOCK _(with a short laugh):_ John, please don't let your sense of chivalry cloud your judgement. If we know one thing, it's that this woman is definitely not being held in that room against her will. It’s exceptionally unsuitable as a prison. All she'd have to do is shout, or bang on the door, and help would come running at once. Her housemates hear her moving about and using the bathroom, so she's not restrained or anything.

JOHN: She could be drugged. Sedated. Not herself.

SHERLOCK _(sardonically):_ With a drug whose effects last for _four_ days straight? That would certainly be a novelty on the market. _(He puts the tips of his fingers together and regards his friend in silence for a moment, then continues in a more conciliatory tone.)_ There are any number of reasons why a woman might need a safe place to hide for a while, John, and not all of them morally objectionable. She could be an illegal immigrant, fearing deportation. She could be a drug addict looking for a quiet place to detox. She could be a victim of domestic abuse, hiding from a violent partner or parent.

JOHN _(disapprovingly):_ Or she could be a wanted criminal, on the run from the law.  
  
SHERLOCK _(waving the suggestion away):_ Whatever she is, she's fine with her current domicile, and in no danger from André at all. They're allies, not enemies.

JOHN _(indignantly):_ She doesn't even get anything to eat up there!

SHERLOCK: Who says that André carried _only_ her upstairs that night, and not also a range of non-perishable supplies for her to subsist on during her stay? Anyone who has ever lived in student accommodation, which happens to include both you and me, knows how surprisingly far you can get in that department with a kettle alone.

JOHN _(still not entirely convinced):_ Hmm. ( _He shifts in his seat, and his eyes return to the photo of the dancing men.)_ Still, it – it doesn't feel right, somehow. I'm –

_He's clearly not ready to just let it go, even though he seems to have trouble articulating why._

SHERLOCK: I see your instinct is taking you exactly where your brain will arrive in a couple of minutes, too. _(With a sudden surge of energy, he pushes himself back out of chair and resumes his pacing, his brow creased.)_ She _is_ in danger from another quarter, no doubt. And that danger is serious and imminent, judging from the rigour of their precautions. I’m not nearly as worried about her as I am about him, you know. How far will _he_ go to protect her?

JOHN: Where is he now, anyway?

SHERLOCK: Trying to resolve their trouble, whatever it is.

JOHN: And she’s waiting for him to sort things out?

SHERLOCK: Yes, and in a considerable state of nervous agitation, too, going by her erratic patterns of sleep and activity that are driving her housemates to distraction. André can’t come near her, of course, because if he does, he'll blow her cover and lead her enemies to her. But he keeps her updated, and in a very clever way, too. _(He swivels on his heel, and points at the dancing men on the blackboard.)_ What better way to disguise your message than to make it look like the random doodles of a child? Non-digital encryption is going rapidly out of fashion, but I'm fairly familiar with most forms of it. Very few codes, however, manage to not only render the message itself unreadable to an outsider, but also obscure the fact that there's a message contained in it at all. _(With the appreciation of a true connoisseur)_ It's positively ingenious.

JOHN _(glancing up at the dancing men):_ And what makes you so sure that this is -

SHERLOCK: Remember what Mrs Warren told us André was most interested in when he first looked at the room?

JOHN _(with a frown):_ She didn't say -

SHERLOCK: Oh yes, she did. It was the view from the window. “He looked around,”, she said “and out the window like he expected a view”. Very shrewdly observed, even though she had no idea what that motion signified. That’s exactly what André was doing. He was checking whether the view from the window would enable his woman to see any messages he'd leave for her outside. Shinwell Johnson's garage wall provided the perfect canvas, so he took the room at once, even though it was a big strain on his budget.

JOHN _(smiling a little whimsically):_ Because he “gulped” when Mrs Warren told him the price?

SHERLOCK: Precisely. _(Returning the smile)_ You're finally getting the hang of this, John. _(John pulls a face at him, but Sherlock continues, unfazed.)_ The room also had to have an en suite so the woman wouldn’t have to leave it even for a minute. And the window had to be high up, away from prying eyes. It can’t have been easy to find a place that met all those requirements. André certainly wasn’t in a position to bargain. Interestingly, the only reason why André and his woman are communicating in this nifty little cipher at all may be the need for economy.

JOHN: How d'you mean?

SHERLOCK: If they could both afford phones, they could just text each other.

_John grimaces in acknowledgment of the obviousness of this conclusion. Sherlock points with his chin at the photograph of the original dancing men, which John has placed on the arm of his chair._

SHERLOCK: And look at the writing material. It's charcoal. More precisely, lump charcoal from a type of hardwood that's rare in Britain but a very popular import from Paraguay. The grain structure is quite distinctive even at very low magnification. So instead of spending money on a spray can, or even just on a box of chalk, André went scavenging for leftover barbecue charcoal in someone's garden or backyard. Or, less risky, at one of the public barbecue areas in the woods around the Brent Reservoir. That's barely a mile from The Warren. There's no reason why he should get his hands dirty like that if he had the money to afford a less primitive writing technique.

JOHN: Right. So – ( _He looks up enquiringly at the new dancing men on the blackboard.)_ What about those, then?

SHERLOCK: Oh, they're merely an hypothesis. An exercise, if you like, based on the assumption that we're dealing with the most common type of code – a substitution cipher, in which each letter of the alphabet is represented by a different symbol. If its author were a famous cryptologist, this is how he'd introduce himself.

_He plucks a piece of paper from the desk, and hands it to John. It's a handwritten table, with each type of dancing figure assigned to a letter of the alphabet. With its help, John slowly deciphers the letters encoded on the blackboard._

JOHN: “Am – here – Abe – Slaney”. _(Looking up, at a loss)_ Who the hell is Abe Slaney?

SHERLOCK: As I said, a famous cryptologist.

_When John doesn’t reply, Sherlock resumes his seat, as if in acknowledgment that his friend is entitled to a proper explanation._

SHERLOCK: Professor Abraham B. Slaney holds a chair in cryptography and cryptanalysis at Chicago University. He's an eminent capacity in that field. Mycroft consults him whenever the GCHQ are at their wits’ end. _(John lets out a low whistle, impressed.)_ I haven't been in touch for ages, but I'm sure he'd agree to help out. _(With a crooked smile)_ For old times' sake.

JOHN: He's an old friend, then?

SHERLOCK: Of our mother's, actually. He's her age. They first met during their own uni days, and he used to be a guest in our house later, too, when he was in England for conferences and such. _(He tilts his head back and fixes his eyes on an invisible spot on the ceiling.)_ He'd bring us puzzles, like other kids get sweets and toys. He'd place them on the sundial in the garden in the morning, and we’d run to get them as soon as we woke up. Eurus always solved hers the quickest. It might even have been Abe Slaney who coined the phrase “beyond Newton”. Not sure though.

JOHN _(after a moment, quietly):_ You remember things like that now?

SHERLOCK: Sometimes. _(His fingers start picking absently at the arm of his chair.)_ Little enough. Just fragments, mostly. But they're making sense now. That helps.

_John seems on the verge of asking “With what?”, but decides against it._

SHERLOCK: And sometimes I ask, now, and get answers. That helps, too.

_There’s a silence, until Sherlock clears his throat and squares his shoulders, dismissing the issue._

SHERLOCK: Anyway. Substitution ciphers are cracked by frequency analysis. So what do you make of André's dancing men now?

JOHN _(his eyes back on the photo):_ Hmm... The most common letter in English is “e”, right? Of these eight figures, three are identical. The second, the fifth and the last. So if we assume that this particular man, the one with the arms up and the feet on the ground, represents “e” - what does that give us?

SHERLOCK: “Decrease”. Or “fervence”.

JOHN: Hmm. _(He takes out his phone and starts typing on it. After a moment)_ I'm also getting “Bellevue” and “Hetaerae”. _(He looks up with a grin.)_ Crosswordtools dot org. Or is that cheating, too?

SHERLOCK: Not at all, but I'm afraid I fail to see how ancient Greek prostitutes come into the story. And “Bellevue” would just be a cruel sort of humour, considering the state of The Warren’s backyard. No, but you see the problem, don't you?

JOHN: The message is too short to be definite?

SHERLOCK: Yes. Too little data, too many imponderables. What we're currently taking for an “e” could be a different letter, too. And even if we're right on that point, the eight men could represent several separate short words instead of just one long one. They could say “He ate pie”, for all we know. Or the message could be incomplete, because André may have been interrupted when he put it there. Or, the bane of all decryption efforts, he may have made a mistake.

JOHN: It could be another language, too. Since Mrs Warren said he seemed foreign, I mean. _(He stretches.)_ Well, I suppose there _is_ no way of figuring out what it means, then?

SHERLOCK: Not without a longer sample. But until then -

_Just then, his phone pings in the kitchen._

SHERLOCK _(expectantly):_ Ah ha!

_He jumps up from his seat and hurries to retrieve the phone from among the clutter on the kitchen table. He opens the message – and a satisfied grin spreads across his face._

JOHN _(turning in his chair):_ Good news?

SHERLOCK _(happily):_ The solution.

_He hands his phone to John. On the screen is a snapshot very similar to the one Sherlock took the day before, showing the upper part of Shinwell Johnson’s garage wall. But on the lintel above the doors, at least twenty more stick figures have now joined in the strange dance. These are also visibly grouped into four units of different length, as if to represent separate words._

SHERLOCK: And there’s more.

_John swipes the picture off to the left, and the next one appears – not of the garage this time, but of the roof of No. 14 Orme Street with its single dormer window. John frowns._

SHERLOCK: Enlarge it.

_In close-up, it becomes apparent that there’s now a row of stick figures dancing across the window pane up there, too. They’re painted in some other substance than charcoal – something more viscous, less friable. It’s difficult to tell from the distance, but they seem red in colour. There are eight of them, too, but they’re different from the sample they collected the day before._

SHERLOCK _(triumphantly):_ He's got news for her. And she’s responding. Just like I expected.

JOHN _(looking up from the phone):_ Are you saying you set Shinwell Johnson on this?

SHERLOCK: Of course. He asked whether I had a job for him. I had. _(He holds out his hand to reclaim his phone.)_ And now excuse me while I forward these to Professor Slaney.

JOHN _(with a laugh):_ What, aren’t _you_ gonna solve this for breakfast?

SHERLOCK: Waste of time. Slaney commands much greater computing power for this sort of analysis at his institute than anything I could set up in here, even with the help of the Baker Street botnet. He’ll have the answer within seconds. Allowing for the time difference between London and Chicago, we should have the result by the afternoon.

_He starts typing rapidly on his phone, then suddenly becomes aware of John’s conspicuous silence. He glances up, and finds John looking at him with a scandalised expression on his face, his eyebrows disappearing into his hair._

JOHN: The Baker Street botnet? Do I actually want to know about that?

SHERLOCK _(quickly):_ Probably not. _(He has the grace to blush, at least a little.)_ I assure you that in the interest of good neighbourly relations, I try to restrict its use to a minimum.

_John only shakes his head at him._

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this!!! Isn't it perfect?
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> Illustration by [RubraSaetaFictor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor)


	5. Chapter 5

 

 **_A park somewhere in Central London, in the afternoon of the same day._** _The place is a little oasis of green, if too small to completely tune out the noise of the traffic that flows all around it. Sherlock is walking along one of its paths with a determined step, hands in the pockets of his coat. Somewhere nearby, a church bell chimes three quarters of an hour._

_As if on cue, Sherlock's phone pings. He takes it out, and starts reading the message on the screen while he walks. His face starts clouding over as he scrolls through it. He halts to read the rest of it, and when he has reached the end, he bares his teeth in a soundless grimace of frustration. He stands there undecided for a moment, then punches a speed dial. Phone at his ear, he waits for the call to connect. When it does, he starts speaking without preamble._

SHERLOCK _(into the phone):_ I've just heard from Professor Slaney. He's got it.

_But he's sounding much less enthusiastic than he did in the morning._

**_At the other end of the call,_** _John is seated at his desk in his – currently empty - consulting room at the surgery where he works. He's clicking his way through some kind of digital form on the screen of his computer with one hand while he responds to the call with the other._

JOHN _(distractedly):_ Well, spit it out. I’m not exactly -

 **_Back in the park,_ ** _Sherlock cuts him off, too intent on passing on the news to care about John's work schedule._

SHERLOCK: The dancing men are a substitution cipher. And you were right about it being foreign. Slaney has identified three possible languages in whose writing systems the samples could logically represent real words. But since André seems to be the wrong ethnicity for Burmese, and he and his woman are unlikely to be experts in the cuneiform script used by the ancient Akkadians –

JOHN _(typing one-handed):_ Point taken, what is it?

SHERLOCK: Russian. _(He starts walking again.)_ The first eight men we found yesterday form the Russian word for “patience”, “terpeniye”. Eight letters in cyrillic script, with number two, five and eight incidentally being “e”, just like we thought.

JOHN: So André was telling the woman to be patient while he went about their business? That makes sense. _(He abandons his computer and leans back in his chair, entirely focussed on their conversation now.)_ What about the newer messages?

SHERLOCK: “Ya golodna” on the window. Means “I'm hungry”. And André’s response on the garage, “Karri segodnya v polden’”. “Curry today at noon.”

JOHN _(his face brightening):_ But that -

SHERLOCK _(glumly):_ \- would have given us a brilliant chance to meet André and his lady in person today, yes. If it hadn't been for the time difference between London and Chicago.

_John automatically checks his watch, which is at eight minutes to three._

JOHN _(disappointed):_ Oh, damn. Well, I suppose we can't blame an elderly gentleman for not answering his e-mails at five in the morning.

_Sherlock looks very much as if he strongly disagrees with such soft-heartedness._

JOHN _ _(a little peevishly):_ _ I told you André wasn't feeding her, by the way.

SHERLOCK: Nonsense. He never meant that to happen.

_There's a knock on the door of John's room, and one of the surgery's receptionists – no longer Mary, of course, but a very freckled young red-head – looks in, her expression both apologetic and enquiring. A cacophony of unpleasant noises from the nearby waiting area makes its way into the room with her – coughing, noses being blown, babies crying, toddlers whining. John grimaces at the unsubtle reminder that he's neglecting his job. He makes a vaguely appeasing gesture to the receptionist, but keeps talking into the phone at the same time._

JOHN __(into the phone):__ Never meant what to happen?

_The receptionist disappears, looking resigned rather than reassured._

SHERLOCK: Her running out of provisions. It must be because whatever he’s doing outside has turned out to take much longer than they thought it would. “Terpeniye”, remember?

JOHN: Well, what do we do now? Wait for her to get hungry again? 

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Yes. And fill the time with whatever pleasant distraction comes our way.

JOHN _(immediately suspicious):_ What are you up to now?

_In the park, Sherlock has arrived at his destination. He halts in front of a low iron fence._

SHERLOCK: Greg Lestrade’s just called me about some John Doe at the morgue that he'd like identified. Want to come?

JOHN _(impatiently):_ Sherlock, I’ve still got eight patients to see before I pick up Rosie at half past four, and I’m –

SHERLOCK: - not going to make it anyway. Why don’t _I_ pick her up right now, and you’ll join us at Barts when you’re done at work?

JOHN _(highly alarmed):_ You're not taking my daughter to a morgue!

SHERLOCK _(in a mock-scandalised tone):_ I'm wounded by the _very_ suggestion, John. She might catch a cold!

_He ends the call, and raises his eyes to the building beyond the fence he’s standing at. By the cheerful decorations in its large windows – brightly-coloured flowers and butterflies under a rainbow – and by the swings and the large sandbox in the grounds outside, it can’t be anything but Rosie’s nursery._

 

_Sherlock grins._

 

* * *

 

 **_St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The bare corridor leading to the dissecting rooms of the morgue, later that afternoon._ ** _Sherlock – alone after all, thankfully – comes striding down the empty, echoing hallway. He’s nearly at the door into one of the dissecting rooms when it opens from the inside, and Greg Lestrade steps out, phone at his ear._

LESTRADE _(into the phone):_ Yeah, keep looking. It’s got to be _somewhere._

_He spots Sherlock and gestures over his shoulder, mouthing “Go ahead”, while he listens to the response at the other end of the line._

LESTRADE _(into the phone):_ Have you done the shoreline on the other side, too?

_He proceeds down the corridor, his voice fading as he continues talking into the phone._

_Sherlock enters the dissecting room. It’s empty, at least of other living beings. On two of the dissecting tables, bodies lie covered with sheets, one on the table nearest the door, the other at the far end of the room._

_Sherlock steps up to the closest table, and carefully folds back the sheet to reveal the dead person’s head. It’s a young man, stoutly built, his hair cropped short. His slightly podgy face is very white and very still. There are a few smudges of dirt and abrasions on one side of it, on the forehead, cheeks and jawbone, but no other visible injury that hints at the cause of death._

_Sherlock contemplates the dead body for a moment, silent and unmoving. Then he lifts the sheet for a look at the man’s right hand, and launches into a flurry of observations._

_Raising the fingers to the light, their tips are stained with black ink, as if someone has taken his fingerprints in the effort to identify him. Sherlock sniffs in disapproval, and whips out his magnifying glass for a better look at the minutiae of the dead man’s hand. When he’s finished with the right, he replaces it at the body's side, walks around the table and turns his attention to the left. There’s a tattoo of an anchor on the inside of the dead man’s left forearm. After a close scrutiny of the fingers on the left hand, Sherlock moves to the foot of the table and lifts the sheet to examine the body’s toes. One of them – the fifth on the right foot – is missing, but it’s an old injury, well-healed._

_The door into the room opens. Sherlock whips around, clicking his magnifier shut. Greg Lestrade is back, pocketing his phone._

SHERLOCK _(rattling off deductions in rapid fire mode):_ Northern or Eastern European, painter and decorator by trade, recently out of military service with his country’s navy in arctic or sub-arctic waters.

LESTRADE _(frowning):_ No, hang on –

SHERLOCK _(dismissively):_ Oh, _please. (He turns and points.)_ Regulation haircut only just starting to grow out, maritime-themed tattoo on his arm, but back already in his accustomed trade, by the stubborn traces of white paint and plaster under his nails that indicate recent regular contact with these substances. _(He speaks faster and faster, the words almost tumbling over each other, his eyes fixed on the body.)_ Given his young age, his stint in the military wouldn’t be over again already if he’d entered it professionally, which means he was a short-term conscript rather than a career soldier, so, not British but from the Baltic states, Scandinavia or Russia, all of whom have military conscription _and_ navies that aren’t afraid of going into cold and even very cold waters. _(He gestures at the dead man's feet.)_ Which is where he lost his toe. Frostbite, but resolved by an expert amputation, indicating a reasonable standard of healthcare, as provided in most European armed forces. _(He wrinkles his nose.)_ Oh, and he’s been sleeping rough lately, too, though not for more than a week or so, going by the still moderate levels of grease in his hair and grime on his skin. _(He turns back to Lestrade with a triumphant smile.)_ Anything else?

_Lestrade, who has followed this self-absorbed soliloquy with mounting amusement, chuckles ruefully._

LESTRADE: Thanks, mate, I’m sure that’ll all be very helpful to my colleagues in Roads and Transport.

_Sherlock’s smile drops off his face. Lestrade gestures at the body Sherlock has just been deducing._

LESTRADE: He's just a road accident. Picked off the A5 a couple of hours ago, I heard. Not my division. The one _I_ want to know about is this one.

_He strides over to the only other occupied slab, at the far end of the room. Sherlock, looking a little sheepish now, trots after him._

LESTRADE _(over his shoulder):_ A lady walking her dog found this one floating in the Brent Reservoir. _He's_ mine, right enough. Four or five gunshots through the back, into the heart.

_They reach the table. Lestrade turns the sheet back – and Sherlock finds himself looking straight into the pale face of Shinwell Johnson, unmistakable even in death by his bald head and long ginger beard._

__There’s a heavy silence. Then Sherlock lets out a long, carefully controlled breath. Lestrade eyes him sideways, frowning._ _

LESTRADE: Mean anything to you?

_Sherlock shakes his head absently, but he's careful to avoid the Detective Inspector's eyes._

LESTRADE: He had a motorcycle helmet on, and he was dressed all in leather. So with that, and the look of him, we’re thinking motorcycle gang rivalries, or something of that sort. This was an execution, not a stray bullet, or a joke or a dare gone wrong. The strange thing is, his motorbike is missing. We’ve searched the entire shoreline of the reservoir, but there’s nothing. And no identification on him either, no papers, no phone, just some cash in his pocket. 

_Sherlock, still silent, lifts the sheet where it covers Johnson's right hand. His fingertips are black with ink, too._

SHERLOCK _(in a deceptively indifferent tone):_ Well, if you're right about motorcycle gangs, his prints are almost certain to be in your database.

LESTRADE: Wouldn't have called you if they were. _(Expectantly)_ Well? What do you make of him?

_The click of the door opening again makes the two men turn. It's Molly Hooper, ponytailed and white-coated as usual, walking backwards into the room, pushing the heavy door open with her back. She's carrying a folder in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She turns, and stops short when she realises that she's not alone._

MOLLY _(blushing):_ Oh, sorry. _(She attempts a smile.)_ Hi, Sherlock! _(To Lestrade)_ Got anywhere yet? 

LESTRADE _(with a quick sideways glance at Sherlock):_ Not really.

_Sherlock doesn't respond at all. Molly, oblivious to the tension in the room, ambles over to the road accident victim._

MOLLY: Well, this one's known now, at least. __(She deposits her folder and her coffee on the workbench installed along the wall. Over her shoulder)_ _ The Border Agency got a match for his fingerprints straight away. Russian tourist. His name is -

_Sherlock abruptly raises his head._

SHERLOCK: Andrei. _(In a lower tone, to himself)_ Not “André”.

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ Sorry, what?

SHERLOCK _(quickly):_ Nothing.

MOLLY _(turning around from her paperwork, deeply impressed):_ How did you know that? 

SHERLOCK _(in a flat voice):_ Balance of probability.

_He snaps his mouth shut, and starts walking straight towards the door, without another look at his companions, or at the corpses on the tables._

LESTRADE _(calling after him, confused):_ What? Hey! _(He gestures at Shinwell Johnson's body.)_ You haven't even looked at him properly!

_But Sherlock wordlessly pushes the door open and walks out of the room. The door falls shut behind him with a thud. Lestrade exchanges a rather irritated look with Molly._

MOLLY _(with an apologetic shrug):_ Horse, water, drink?

LESTRADE _(darkly):_ Let's hope it's just that.


	6. Chapter 6

**_221B Baker Street. The Kitchen. Dinnertime._ ** _It’s dark outside, but the flat is lit by a homey glow of light. Sherlock, with his jacket off and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, is at the cooker, frying chopped onions and bacon in a pan. On the other side of the room, something is being warmed up in the microwave. John, carrying Rosie on his hip, is moving around the kitchen table, setting it with plates and cutlery, expertly one-handed. The table has been cleared of laboratory equipment, and the microscope has been moved aside to allow three people to sit and eat comfortably._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ So, I owe Mike Stamford a new computer keyboard now?

_Sherlock picks up a pot from the worktop and tilts its contents - spaghetti - into the pan. A hiss rises from it, together with a little cloud of steam._

SHERLOCK: I told Rosie she should have aimed for his tie instead. Destroying one of those would have been a service to mankind. But yeah, the keyboard was inundated beyond repair, I’m afraid. _(As if to make his point, he pours a creamy sauce over the pasta, and starts stirring vigorously.)_ The coffee was already cold and stale, though, so Stamford won’t be expecting compensation for that. _(He glances a little guiltily over his shoulder at his friend.)_ I'm sure he wouldn't have placed the mug within her reach anyway if it had still been hot.

_John shakes his head, unconvinced. The microwave pings, and John walks over with Rosie on his arm to retrieve a small bowl from it._

JOHN _(to Rosie, putting the bowl down on the table):_ What were you doing at a computer anyway, hmm?

SHERLOCK: They were watching cartoon clips on YouTube.

_John’s eyebrows go up. Sherlock lifts the pan off the cooker and starts heaping spaghetti carbonara on his and John’s plates.  
_

SHERLOCK: Totally age appropriate though, Stamford assured me. Something about a mouse.

JOHN: A mouse?

SHERLOCK: Yeah, the Great Mouse Something-or-other. I forget. She loved it, apparently.

_John glances at his daughter and shakes his head again. Rosie smiles broadly back. A fold-away high chair has been placed for her at the table. John puts her into it, then settles down in his own chair, at right angles to his daughter and opposite Sherlock’s place. After replacing the pan on the cooker, Sherlock joins them._

JOHN _(in a rather rueful tone):_ I can’t do this forever though, can I?

_He stirs the contents of Rosie’s small bowl - a shapeless orange mash, probably some kind of carrot-based baby food - and then offers a spoonful to her. With a bit of coaxing, she reluctantly accepts it._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ Dump her off on you, I mean, or on Stamford, or on the world and his wife, just because I’m running late at work.

SHERLOCK: Well, if you compare the cost of a cheap mass-produced piece of electronics to that of out-of-hours professional childcare, I’d say it’s a reasonable arrangement.

_John grins wryly. More coaxing, and some more carrot mash disappears into Rosie’s mouth. Meanwhile, Sherlock has started picking at his own dinner with an equal lack of enthusiasm.  
_

JOHN _(with a nod at his plate):_ I’ve never seen you cook spaghetti carbonara. I didn’t even know you like it.

SHERLOCK _(a little evasively):_ Well, the bacon and eggs were threatening to go off, so…

_He looks up, and realises that John hasn’t had a single bite of his own yet, and that his pasta will be cold long before he’ll get the chance. Sherlock immediately puts his fork down, and wordlessly holds out his hand for Rosie’s spoon._

JOHN _(more relieved than he’d like to admit):_ Oh. Ta.

_He hands the spoon over to Sherlock and starts tucking into his own meal. For the next few minutes, Sherlock feeds his goddaughter while John wolves down his dinner, making the best of the opportunity for as long as it offers. There is an almost comfortable silence, until John’s plate is nearly empty, and he slows down to finally address the elephant in the room._

JOHN _(leaning back in his chair, to Sherlock):_ So, and while Rosie was having fun with Stamford, you stumbled across Shinwell Johnson dead in the morgue.

SHERLOCK: Well, it would have been more surprising to stumble across him there alive, but that about sums it up.

_He wipes Rosie’s chin clean with a tissue, then offers her the next spoonful. Rosie turns her face away in protest. The spoon immediately turns into a rocket or a spaceship, and comes humming through the air in a spectacular loop before landing in Rosie’s mouth, which has fallen open in wonder while she was watching it approach. She swallows mechanically._

JOHN _(unsmiling):_ You realise we can’t keep doing this either?

SHERLOCK _(distractedly):_ What? You’d need a lot of persuasion, too, if you were supposed to subsist on tasteless, shapeless vegetable pulp.

_The next rocket takes off, but this time Rosie sees through the trick. As soon as the spoon is within her reach, she resolutely pushes it away. Sherlock shrugs and hands her a small glass of water instead. She takes it in both hands, and happily drenches her bib trying to drink from it._

JOHN: I mean the case, Sherlock. _(He nods towards his daugther.)_ It won't be long, and we won't even be able to _talk_ about ugly stuff like this in front of her any more. Except maybe in code.

SHERLOCK _(with a smile):_ That could be fun. _(To Rosie, securing her glass)_ Come on, no more flooding today. _(To John)_ But I’d have said this case was particularly family-friendly, you know. Even the murderers seem careful to commit their crimes between nine and five.

JOHN _(testily):_ You know what I mean. Or I _hope_ you know what I mean. Seriously, you ask a man to keep watch on a house, and twenty-four hours later he’s as dead as a doornail. I find that disquieting, if you don’t.

SHERLOCK _(in the same light tone as before):_ D’you want to drop out of this one, then? That’s fine, you know. Lestrade's probably right about motorcycle gangs and their tedious turf wars. Sounds like you won't be missing much.

JOHN _(crossing his arms):_ I thought we were looking at chickens and funny stick figures. Now we're looking at a brutal murder. Did you see that coming?

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ No.

_He scrapes the rest of the carrot mash from the bottom of the bowl, avoiding John’s eyes. John, however, is clearly not yet satisfied with that answer. Eventually, Sherlock meets his eyes again._

SHERLOCK _(quietly, but rather gravely this time):_ No.

JOHN: All right. So how can I keep taking Rosie along, if even you can’t tell whether it’ll be fun or serious business?

_Rosie visibly perks up her ears at the mention of her name. Sherlock makes use of it by sneaking the spoon into her mouth one last time._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ I told you, I'm fine if you drop out. In fact, I'd probably sleep better if you did.

_John frowns in surprise at this unexpected statement. Rosie, miffed that she let herself be taken in, chooses this moment to return that last unwanted spoonful of carrot, by pursing her lips and spurting it all over the table in front of her._

JOHN _(exasperated):_ Rosie, _really!_

_He jumps up to fetch the kitchen roll, and then hastily starts wiping the mess away. Sherlock, unperturbed, collects the bunched-up papers and reaches out with a long arm to drop them in the bin._

JOHN _(walking over to rinse his hands at the sink):_ This _isn't_ about biker gangs, is it? 

SHERLOCK _(soberly):_ Of course not.

JOHN: And you knew that straight away.

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. Biker gangs take pride in showing the world who they are. Patches and emblems are an integral part of their subculture. But Johnson’s workshop didn’t have any decorations of that sort. Nor did his gear, or they’d have mentioned it at the morgue. And that’s not surprising, really. Johnson would have been stupid to form an affiliation with any particular club. It would have limited his customer base dramatically.

JOHN _(drying his hands on a towel):_ So that brings us back to The Warren.

SHERLOCK: I’m afraid so, yes.

JOHN _(resuming his seat):_ So Johnson caught André sneaking around The Warren, and André gunned him down?

SHERLOCK _(sardonically):_ And then dragged the body, in heavy biker’s gear, all the way down to the Brent Reservoir? In broad daylight? That would certainly have raised a few eyebrows, even in West Hendon. 

JOHN: Then what happened? Are you really saying that Johnson’s death had nothing to do with the job you gave him?

SHERLOCK _(a little snappishly):_ I’m going to worry about that once I know for sure how and why exactly he met his death, John. But until then, there’s no point in wasting any time or energy on that question. _(When John doesn’t respond, he continues in a kinder tone.)_ But you’re probably not that far from the truth, you know. Yes, we must assume that Johnson died because he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see.

JOHN: And what exactly did he see?

SHERLOCK: We don’t know that yet. But I’m sure Detective Inspector Lestrade will have the answer for us when he joins us in a moment. 

_Downstairs, the doorbell rings._

JOHN _(grumpily):_ Show-off. 

SHERLOCK _(a little wounded):_ No show. Simple deduction. _(To Rosie, raising a finger in a gesture of instruction)_ Car engine, quite distinctly a BMW, approaching and then stopping at the kerb right outside our house, where only a policeman would have the nerve to ignore the no parking signs. _(With a reproachful glance at Rosie’s father)_ Sometimes you’d think your dad's new to this, wouldn't you?

JOHN _(not amused):_ Mrs Warren thought this André guy was a weirdo. Now it looks like he’s a murderous weirdo. You tell me what's so funny about that. You said yourself you were worried how far he’d go to protect his woman.

SHERLOCK _(with a sigh):_ I don't expect that André will go anywhere ever again, John.

JOHN: He’ll – what?

_Before John can put his bewilderment at this statement into words, there are heavy steps on the stairs, and a moment later, Greg Lestrade looks in at the kitchen door._

SHERLOCK _(breezily):_ Ah, come in, Detective Inspector. Did you find the motorbike at the bottom of the Cool Oak Lane bridge?

_Lestrade baulks._

LESTRADE: What? _(Catching on, annoyed)_ No, we bloody didn’t! Couldn’t you have told us that sooner? The search’s on hold now until daylight tomorrow.

SHERLOCK _(with a dismissive wave of his hand):_ Well, then you know where to resume it. No hurry. It’s probably not his own, anyway.

LESTRADE _(sarcastically):_ Well, that’s a comfort.

_John, remembering his manners, pulls out the fourth chair from under the table by way of invitation. Lestrade gratefully accepts the offer and sinks down in it, looking weary and exhausted. He summons up enough energy to smile and wink at Rosie on the other side of the table, but the friendly expression slides off his face again as fast as it came._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock):_ As a matter of fact, forget the motor biker for now. I'm here about Molly Hooper’s other guest.

SHERLOCK _(in a studiously casual tone):_ You mean the road accident? I thought he wasn’t yours?

LESTRADE: He is now.

_Sherlock, not surprised in the least, gives John a pointed look. John's frown deepens._

JOHN: What road -

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ Well, tell us all about him, then. 

_He turns to Rosie, who has started fidgeting in her seat and drumming her short legs against the edge of the table. It’s making the plates rattle.  
_

SHERLOCK: And you, Miss, promise to let us talk a bit in peace, and you’ll be getting some _real_ food.

_As if on command, Rosie stops drumming her legs against the table, looking expectantly at her godfather. Sherlock starts cutting the leftover pasta on his plate in small pieces. John watches with his brows drawn together, torn between stopping his friend supplying age-inappropriate food to his daughter and accepting the respite it promises. Meanwhile, Lestrade has taken out his little black notebook to refresh his memory._

LESTRADE _(reading from the notebook):_ The Border Agency’s identified that other man in the morgue as one Andrei Ivanovich Zima, twenty-two, from Rostov on Don in south-eastern Russia.

_At the mention of the name, John’s head snaps up in surprise. He looks from Lestrade to Sherlock, eyes wide with dawning comprehension. Sherlock gives him a sharp look and very quick shake of his head, masking the motion by putting his pasta plate in front of Rosie at the same time. John takes the hint and shuts his mouth again, but he looks less than happy about it. Lestrade flips over a page in his notebook and continues his report, apparently oblivious of the wordless little exchange that has passed between the two friends._

LESTRADE: He entered the country on a tourist visa a little more than a week ago. __(To Sherlock)__ His visa application has all the details your ego could possibly wish to see there. Occupation, painter and decorator. Military service with the Russian navy until the end of last year. Stationed in Murmansk on the Barents Sea. __(To John, with a sarcastic undertone)__ As anyone could have told from the frostbite scars on his feet, of course. And then he comes to London to warm up, only to get run over by a car. __(He pauses for effect.)__ Three times.

_There is a silence. John looks stunned, Lestrade resigned, and Sherlock almost indecently satisfied. Rosie meanwhile has started helping herself to pieces of spaghetti, pushing them into her mouth with her whole hand. None of the three men take the time to admire her fine motor skills. Lestrade chucks his notebook onto the table and leans back in his chair._

LESTRADE: That’s what Molly found, at any rate. She estimates that the first time the car went over him was bad enough already to break his neck and sever his spinal cord, but apparently someone wanted to make doubly and triply sure he’d never rise from the tarmac to tell the tale. _(Wryly)_ So the guys in Roads and Transport are well shot of him, the lucky bastards. This one’s definitely Homicide and Major Crime, too.

SHERLOCK: Where did it happen, and when?

LESTRADE _(raising an eyebrow at him):_ You sure you don’t know that as well as I do? Or better?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Where and when exactly?

LESTRADE: Quarter to twelve, on the corner of Park Road and the A5, or West Hendon Broadway as it’s called in that part of town. And yes, thank you, I’ve noticed that’s no more than half a mile from where we pulled the motor biker out of the Brent Reservoir. Guess why I’m here. _(He arches an eyebrow at Sherlock.)_ Add to that the fact that Molly puts the two men's deaths within an hour of each other at the most, and you can count yourself lucky that I’m not getting out the thumbscrews.

SHERLOCK _(with a disdainful curl of his lip):_ And I've been wondering all these years why your interrogations never yield any useful results.

LESTRADE _(gravely):_ I'm warning you, Sherlock. I can't tell what exactly it is you're hiding from me, but I can tell that you're hiding something.

JOHN _(quickly, to Lestrade):_ Weren't there any witnesses? To the accident, I mean? The A5's a busy road, isn't it lined with traffic cameras?

LESTRADE: No, we're out of luck there. There's some major road work going on at the moment, so they’ve disconnected the power lines - traffic lights, cameras and all. Half the street’s blocked, including the pavement, and the locals are avoiding that stretch of road as best as they can. We’re thinking about putting out an appeal, but for all we know the street was deserted just when it happened. And anyway, it’s not the kind of neighbourhood where everyone's keen on talking to the police about anything.

JOHN: What about the road workers? Didn't they see anything?

LESTRADE: They'd all just gone to have lunch at the local curry shop.

_Sherlock gives John another very pointed look. This time, it definitely doesn't escape Lestrade, and it makes him positively angry. He pushes his chair back abruptly, and rises to his feet._

LESTRADE _(to Sherlock, in a very disgruntled tone):_ Well, have it your own way. I just hope you know what you're doing. And in case you end up ready to cooperate after all, you know where to find me.

SHERLOCK _(straight-faced):_ That's my line.

_Lestrade rolls his eyes at the heavens, but can think of nothing witty to reply. He straightens his coat._

LESTRADE: Right. I’m off. Gotta get in touch with the Russian embassy – formal identification, next of kin, funeral arrangements… _(To Sherlock, still peeved)_ All the stuff _you_ never need worry about.

_He nods goodbye to John, waves half-heartedly at Rosie, who has both her hands in the pasta by now and doesn't even notice, and turns to leave. When his hand is on the door handle, Sherlock speaks up again behind his back, in a suddenly dead serious tone._

SHERLOCK: Don't do that.

_Lestrade turns back, surprised._

LESTRADE: Don’t do what?

SHERLOCK: Don't contact the embassy. Not yet.

LESTRADE _(bewildered):_ Why not? What’s –

_He breaks off, seeing the grave expression on Sherlock’s face. The two men look at each other for a moment. The cogs are visibly turning in the Detective Inspector’s head. Then Lestrade lets out a long, low breath._

LESTRADE: Dammit.

SHERLOCK _(in a mock-congratulatory tone):_ There you are. I knew even _your_ memory couldn’t be that short.


	7. Chapter 7

_**221B Baker Street. The Kitchen, a few minutes later.** _ _Greg Lestrade has left. Sherlock and John are both on their feet. Sherlock is stacking plates for the washing up, while John is none-too-gently wiping an unwilling Rosie’s face and hands clean with a damp flannel. He seems to be in an even worse mood than he was in before Lestrade arrived._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, exasperated):_ So what bloody game is it you’re playing now? First you're not telling Greg about Shinwell Johnson. Now you’re not telling him about Mrs Warren’s lodger. Is that fair?

SHERLOCK: Fair doesn’t come into it, John. Trust me, the fewer clueless policemen blundering around The Warren right now, the better.

_John stops taking out his irritation on his – by now loudly protesting – daughter and straightens up._

JOHN: Oh, so our _friend_ Greg’s just a clueless blundering policeman, is he?

SHERLOCK _(with disarming honesty):_ Well, most of the time, yes.

_John lets out a short bark of laughter, but it is entirely devoid of humour._

JOHN: You know, he didn’t seem all that clueless to me when you two were going on about the Russian embassy just now. I’m guessing there’s a reason why he cursed and then ran out without another word when he heard that place mentioned? Care to let me in on _that_ joke? Or am I just a clueless blundering idiot, too, who’s better off not knowing?

SHERLOCK _(evenly):_ I said it was fine if you wanted to drop out.

JOHN _(incredulously):_ Are you kidding? _(He takes Rosie out of her chair and puts her to sit on his hip again.)_ I’ve just managed to drag my daughter into two nasty unsolved murders, Sherlock. People are _dying_ around that house. I think I’ve got a right to know if there’s anything coming at us!

SHERLOCK _(depositing the used plates in the sink):_ _One_ unsolved murder, John. What happened to Shinwell Johnson is perfectly obvious now.

JOHN _(sarcastically):_ As obvious as where to look for his missing motorbike?

SHERLOCK _(unfazed):_ Yes, of course.

_He continues clearing the table._

_On John’s arm, Rosie has started fussing and complaining, yawning and rubbing her tired eyes. John shifts her from one hip to the other, but only manages to confer more of his own agitation onto her. She starts whining loudly, and nuzzles his bad shoulder forcefully. He pulls a face at the impact._

_Sherlock abruptly puts down the glasses he's been collecting._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ Did you bring it?

JOHN _(distractedly):_ What?

SHERLOCK _(holding out his hand):_ I told you to bring it.

JOHN: Oh, right. In the changing bag. But I don’t think -

_Sherlock, not listening, walks over to where John has deposited a shoulder bag with nappies and bottles and other baby equipment on the floor near the kitchen door. He retrieves from it the rolled-up navy blue baby carrier that John and Mary used when Rosie was younger, unrolls it and starts expertly strapping it around his own waist, then secures it across his shoulders. John looks on in disbelief._

JOHN: You serious?

_Sherlock holds out both hands for his goddaughter._

SHERLOCK: I'm realistic. You’re too worked up right now to get her quiet any time soon. Besides, this thing puts too much strain on your shoulder these days. Not to mention the fact that her head barely fits under your chin any more, either.

_He's still holding out his hands. After a brief moment of hesitation, John sighs, presses a kiss to his daughter’s forehead, and then helps his friend put her snugly in the carrier. It’s a tight fit these days, but with Sherlock’s height, it still works. The unfamiliar sensation makes Rosie wriggle a bit, but the unhappy noises she was making before diminish notably._

_Sherlock leaves the kitchen in the mess that it is and moves over into the dark sitting room with her. He starts pacing back and forth across the rug, while John switches off the lights in the kitchen and joins them, sinking down wearily in his armchair. As soon as he’s settled, Sherlock starts speaking in the darkness, his voice low and even so as not to alarm the tired child he’s carrying._

SHERLOCK: So, Shinwell Johnson. We know now that he died, just like I said, because he’d seen something that he wasn’t supposed to see.

JOHN: But it wasn’t Andrei who killed him?

SHERLOCK: No. It was Johnson who saw Andrei killed.

JOHN: Bloody hell.

SHERLOCK: The timing fits. Andrei is out and about on the local high street, West Hendon Broadway, in the hour before noon, on foot. He'd prefer not to be seen in daylight, of course, but he's got to arrange the promised lunch delivery for his starving charge at The Warren before he melts back into the shadows. His enemies spot him and make short work of him, running him over with their car on the almost deserted road, hoping to make it look like a random accident. But there’s a witness - Shinwell Johnson, on a motorbike, probably just test-driving one of his customer’s around the block. He sees everything. So they decide to make short work of him, too. Johnson, who has just watched the driver of that car run over a defenceless pedestrian three times in cold blood, now sees the same car coming straight at him. So he does the one sensible thing: He turns his bike around and flees, in the only direction where he, as a local man, can hope to shake off pursuit.

JOHN: Down the lane to the Brent Reservoir?

SHERLOCK: Exactly. That’s Cool Oak Lane. It leads directly down from the A5 to the bridge that spans the reservoir at its narrowest point, and gives access to the many woodland paths around it. Johnson would have been able to negotiate those on his bike, but they’d have been too narrow for a car to follow him.

JOHN _(ruefully):_ Only he didn’t make it that far.

SHERLOCK: Indeed he didn’t. At some point at the bottom of Cool Oak Lane, close to the shore, or maybe on the bridge itself, his pursuers decide not to take chances. They haven’t managed to run him down, so they get out of the car and shoot the fleeing man in the back, yet again overdoing it rather badly to be sure of the desired result. Then they dump the dead Johnson and his bike in the water. The heavy bike sinks, but the body’s found floating a little later by an innocent lady walking her dog.

_Rosie, who was still fidgeting a little all this while, lets out a sudden wail of discomfort._

SHERLOCK _(into Rosie’s ear, quietly):_ Sorry, yes, I know it’s not the ideal bedtime story. Don’t tell the NSPCC.

_He continues pacing. John rubs a hand across his tired face._

JOHN: “The pursuers”, as in several people?

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. One car, but certainly more than one occupant.

JOHN: And that’s because - ?

SHERLOCK: Have you ever tried to bundle a Harley-Davidson over the parapet of a bridge single-handedly?

JOHN: Okay. And you know who they are?

_Sherlock neither confirms nor denies it. John looks up at his friend with a frown. Sherlock’s face is difficult to make out in the dark. Rosie hiccups audibly. Sherlock automatically pats her back in a soothing gesture, and continues pacing._

JOHN: Can’t you tell _me_ , at least?

SHERLOCK _(evasively):_ It’s a long story.

JOHN: Go on. _(He tilts his head back and closes his eyes.)_ I’m not going anywhere.

_Sherlock, who has just reached the window side of the room, smiles privately to himself at these words. He flicks the heavy curtain aside to peer out into the street, carefully shielding Rosie's face from the light of the street lamps outside with his other hand._

SHERLOCK: It’s a long story, and we had the completely wrong end of the stick until now. It didn’t start with Mrs Warren’s mystery of the weird lodger at all. It started half a year ago, on DI Dimmock's forty-sixth birthday.

JOHN _(opening one eye):_ Dimmock’s _forty_ -six? He looks twenty-six at best.

SHERLOCK _(still gazing out of the window):_ Well, there’s got to be a reason why he felt obliged to get dead drunk at a pub after work.

 _The dark street outside the window of No. 221B blurs. When it comes back into focus, it's no longer Baker Street but the street with the Bloodhound pub from the prologue._ _**In flashback,** _ _the door of the well-lit pub opens again to emit the drunk Dimmock and his colleagues._

SHERLOCK _(voiceover):_ Just as he and his colleagues were leaving the pub, they happened to witness an accident. A perfectly ordinary, unspectacular fail-to-stop collision with a parked car.

 _**In flashback,** _ _there's the noise of a car engine revving up, and then the crashing sound of the parked car's rear lights being smashed in. All the police officers’ heads swivel around to see what’s happened._

SHERLOCK _(voiceover):_ Greg Lestrade and Stella Hopkins, still being _compos mentis_ enough to act as first responders, took a closer look.

 _**Flashback** _ _to Lestrade and Stella Hopkins at the open car window, Lestrade checking the passenger's passport._

SHERLOCK _(voiceover):_ From the law enforcement point of view, the passengers proved far more interesting than the luckless driver.

 _**Flashback** _ _to the Russian passenger and his dressed-up daughter, he angrily demanding to be let go, she absorbed in her phone._

SHERLOCK _(voiceover):_ A man about sixty, in the company of a girl who looked no older than thirteen or fourteen, but who was dressed, in the words of Stella Hopkins' hopelessly emotional approach to all such things, “like a lamb for the slaughter”.

 _**In flashback,** _ _the girl looks up from her phone with her pitifully vacant eyes. Then the car is driving off, leaving Greg Lestrade looking grimly after it._

 _**Back in 221B Baker Street,** _ _Sherlock turns away from the window. A horizontal ribbon of light from the street lamp falls across his face, casting it into sharp relief. At the other side of the room, John has sat up straight in his chair, both eyes wide open, fully awake and alert again._

JOHN: What happened?

SHERLOCK: Nothing. The driver of the car meekly accepted a fine for his hit-and-run attempt, and the damage to the parked car was settled promptly and very handsomely by the driver’s employer.

_Sherlock lets the curtain fall back into place, plunging the room back into darkness. He's no more than a black shadow as he resumes his pacing. Rosie, in her carrier, has fallen perfectly still._

SHERLOCK: As for the presence of the girl - the police followed that up, of course. But it all checked out. The man who owned the car was a Russian diplomat, just like it said in his passport. His name is Yevgeny Koshkin. He's Head of the Consular Section at the embassy here in London - just one rank below the ambassador himself. And the girl, Natalia, really is his daughter. His adopted daughter, to be precise - Mr and Mrs Koshkin have no children of their own. But their papers were perfectly in order. Natalia grew up in an orphanage, or in a special residential school, as the official euphemism goes, somewhere beyond the Urals. When she was eleven, she hit the jackpot and got adopted by a rich philanthropic Russian couple living in London.

JOHN _(very sceptically):_ Hmm…

SHERLOCK _(with a slight smile):_ I'm sure that's exactly the kind of noise that Greg's colleagues from the Sexual Offences, Exploitation and Child Abuse Unit made at this point, too. So they dug a little deeper.

_He walks over to his leather armchair and lowers himself into it, careful not to wake the child that's now deep asleep, snuggled against his chest. He gently re-arranges Rosie’s dangling legs so as not to squash them, then reaches out to switch on a reading light. It creates a small pool of warm light in that corner of the room, just enough to illuminate the two armchairs and the men sitting in them, and the fireplace between. The heavy easel is gone, and the blackboard with yesterday’s dancing men on it now sits on the mantelpiece instead, like a sombre motto above the scene._

SHERLOCK: It turned out that the Koshkins have even bigger hearts than you'd think. They haven't adopted just one poor abandoned teenage girl in recent years, but four.

JOHN: Oh.

SHERLOCK: And Koshkin's wife acts as legal guardian for a couple more, too, who technically have parents but who came to London on their own, supposedly for their schooling. All these girls are Russian, and they’re all from similar backgrounds. Before they were brought into the UK, they’d all been living with foster carers or in institutions that were more than happy to hand them over to whoever promised them a brighter future. And strangely enough, they all happen to share the same hobby. They’re all enrolled at the Kensington School of Dance – the place Koshkin’s car was exiting when the crash happened.

JOHN: I don't think I've heard of it.

SHERLOCK: Just wait, in ten years' time Rosie will be clamouring for you to cough up so she can go, too. No, really - the Kensington School of Dance is one of the most renowned children's dance schools in London. In just over a decade, it's produced an impressive number of entrants to the Royal Ballet School, and it keeps winning awards. But the biggest praise it gets is for a scholarship programme that its founder and director, a former prima ballerina herself, set up to support talented girls from underprivileged backgrounds. They train there for free, and there's even a residential unit attached to the school for those coming there from abroad, offering free accommodation.

JOHN: Sounds almost too good to be true.

SHERLOCK: Oh, it is true. The school, the scholarship programme, and the residential block behind the school are all perfectly real. And as Greg's astute friends from the Child Abuse Unit quickly noted, there's also a very real traffic going in and out of the school's underground car park every day after nightfall, once official classes are over. They set a watch on the place for a couple of days, and observed at least half a dozen different cars coming and going regularly after hours. All registered to wealthy Russian individuals living in London, or to London-based Russian companies.

JOHN _(aghast):_ God. So that supposed ballet school's just a cover for a Russian pedophile ring, or something?

SHERLOCK: It's cleverer than that. More like killing two birds with one stone. There’s no doubt that the school’s director and her staff really do provide first-class ballet lessons for anyone from the general public who’s talented and willing to pay. You can’t build a reputation like that out of nowhere. Bolshoi-trained, and then based in Paris until about ten years ago, Elisaveta Grunerova really has without doubt dedicated a large portion of her life to the advancement and the refinement of the art of dancing.

JOHN: Then why -

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Money, I suppose. Being a brilliant dancer and teacher will bring you fame and recognition, but it won’t make you a millionaire. Catering to the questionable tastes of a small circle of affluent compatriots, however, certainly will. They must be paying her extremely well, both for the services she procures and for her discretion. Anyway. The police enquiries – named Operation Red Circle, after the design of the school’s logo - established that the Kensington School of Dance is really two separate institutions. There’s the official dance school for the day pupils, which occupies the front part of the premises, and there’s the rear building that houses the resident stipendiaries. But there's no interplay whatsoever. None of the resident pupils have ever been seen taking part in the school’s public classes or performances, and nobody from outside has ever talked to them. They’re like ghosts that come out only at night.

JOHN: But there’s no doubt that they exist?

SHERLOCK: The police spotted some of them in the backs of the cars that came and went. Besides, since the founding of the school, the Border Agency has issued a total of twenty-eight visas for educational purposes to Russian girls between the ages of eleven and fifteen with a scholarship there.

JOHN _(incredulously):_ _Twenty-eight?_

SHERLOCK: Over the past ten years, yes.

_John is silent for a moment, digesting this information._

JOHN: But that means some of the girls must be of age by now. What happens then?

SHERLOCK: Once they've become too old to satisfy Madame Grunerova’s associates’ particular inclinations, you mean? _(He shrugs.)_ None of them’s ever turned up on any official radar here in the UK. They’re probably shipped off to the continent, to continue serving the same purpose in less exclusive establishments, for a less exclusive clientele.

JOHN _(with great indignation):_ But how come nobody’s ever noticed? Ten bloody years, and no-one at the official dance school ever got suspicious? How’s that even possible?

SHERLOCK: Easy, if Madame has managed to surround them with an aura of being her elite, too good to rub shoulders with the riffraff.

JOHN: And none of the girls have ever managed to get out of there? I mean, that girl Greg and Stella Hopkins saw in the car – she knew they were police officers, and she still didn’t ask for help?

SHERLOCK: Remember who these girls are, John. They’re handpicked for vulnerability. Grunerova’s probably got a whole network of recruiters at work for her back in Russia. With their country's current economic situation, there’ll be an endless supply of children like that - friendless, rejected or abandoned by parents unwilling or unable to look after them, living on the streets or vegetating in loveless institutions, many of them already well-acquainted with one or more kinds of abuse. I'm not surprised they come along willingly as soon as someone promises them a happy future, in a new country, in a beautiful city, with a wealthy family, where they’ll get affection and attention, and pretty clothes and dance lessons into the bargain. Who wouldn't say yes, in their position? And I’m not surprised they stay, even when they discover the price they’re expected to pay. You can give them a glitzy phone - they won't use it to plan their escape. You can even put police officers at their car windows - they're not going to ask for help.

JOHN: I find it hard to understand how that works.

SHERLOCK: Why? They’re completely ignorant of the language and of the customs of the country they're in. Where they come from, the police are notoriously corrupt, inefficient, and dismissive of the troubles of ordinary people. So why should they assume it’s different here? And they’ve got nothing to go back to, anyway.

_Rosie shifts against him in her sleep, and Sherlock unconsciously responds by shifting in his chair, too, crossing his legs and putting his fingertips together in front of him in his accustomed lecturing pose. Somehow, the baby carrier doesn't detract at all from its elegance._

SHERLOCK: That's the true nastiness of grooming, John, how it messes with the victims’ minds, not just with their bodies. It creates bonds that are much harder to break out of than physical restraints and locked doors. If done skilfully, there's no need for those at all. Because it'll all be in the victims’ heads. If he spends so much time with me, and if he gives me all those pretty things, doesn’t he love me after all? Even if he beats me into submission every time I don’t want to do something he asks of me? Isn't that my own fault, haven’t I deserved it somehow, when he’s so good to me otherwise?

_John pulls a face in disgust._

SHERLOCK: Add to that a merciless pecking order among the girls themselves, easily upheld by favouritism, presents and privileges that create jealousy and nip any hint of solidarity in the bud - and you’ve got them eating out of your hand. But of course, if any of them should decide to fight back after all, there’s always brute force, too, and sedative drugs, or even just well-placed hints that you know exactly where their mothers and little sisters live, back at home.

JOHN: That just makes me sick to hear, you know.

SHERLOCK: That’s how it works.

JOHN: Still makes me sick.

SHERLOCK _(with a small smile):_ That does you credit, I’m sure. I’d be worried if it was my cooking.

_There’s a silence while John digests all that he’s just heard._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ But – sorry. What's all this got to do with Andrei Zima from The Warren?

SHERLOCK: It’s got everything to do with Andrei Zima from The Warren. _(He gestures at the blackboard with the dancing men on the mantelpiece, dimly lit from below.)_ Tell me, what do you see there now?

JOHN _(glancing up):_ Dancing – oh, god. _(He runs a hand through his hair in deep disquiet.)_ Not dancing _girls?_

SHERLOCK: Fitting, isn't it?

JOHN: So that woman in the attic room at The Warren -

SHERLOCK: - isn't a woman after all. Not yet, at any rate.

JOHN _(stunned):_ She’s a girl. She’s just a child.

_Sherlock nods. John lets out a puff of breath, and falls back into his chair._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ And Andrei, was he one of Grunerova’s recruiters, or what?

SHERLOCK: On the contrary. We’ve already established that they’re allies, not enemies, remember? She isn’t heading for the Kensington School of Dance. She’s escaping from it.

JOHN: Then who is he? Why is he helping her?

SHERLOCK: Isn’t that obvious?

JOHN: What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: I mean that Greg wouldn't have to look further than The Warren to find Andrei’s next of kin.

JOHN: She’s family?

SHERLOCK _(with a rueful smile):_ He's her big brother.

JOHN: Jesus.

_In the ensuing silence, John’s eyes inadvertently go across to the corner near the right-hand window of the room, where Sherlock’s violin case and a new music stand are sitting in plain view, with several layers of sheet music covering the latter, clearly in frequent use. Following John’s gaze, Sherlock’s rueful smile only intensifies. John makes several attempts to say something. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, but each time seems unable to find the right words. He ends up crossing his arms in an almost defensive gesture, hugging himself._

JOHN: So that girl -

SHERLOCK: Katia.

JOHN _(distractedly):_ What?

SHERLOCK: She has a name. Yekaterina Ivanovna Zima, Katia for short. She was on that list of the twenty-eight girls with a scholarship visa. Their latest addition, in fact. I don’t blame Lestrade for not remembering the name, it wasn’t his case after all. But I remember it well.

JOHN: And she’s got a big brother who tried to save her.

SHERLOCK: Yes.

JOHN: And he’s just died for his trouble.

SHERLOCK: Yes.

_Again, there's a silence. This time, it's Sherlock who seems to be on the verge of saying something more, but in the end, he only clears his throat._

SHERLOCK: Andrei’s tourist visa application tells us all we need to know. The Zimas from Rostov-on-Don must be just another of those broken families that Madame Grunerova’s henchmen love to prey on, another family bogged down in violence and neglect and drugs and alcohol, like a thousand others. But Katia was different from her fellow victims in one way. Whatever else was wrong with her family, she had a brother who loved her and protected her. He was probably the one who kept the whole family together, working in a decent job, and even saving up a bit of money for a better future. Until one day, disaster struck.

JOHN: He got called away on military service.

SHERLOCK: Exactly. The navy sent him to Murmansk for a year, on the coast of the Arctic Ocean, thousands of miles away from home. And the whole fragile construct collapsed. While he was away, his sister had no-one to look out for her any more. Maybe she ran away from home, maybe she was put into care by the authorities. Either way, she fell easy prey to Madame Grunerova’s recruiters. At the end of his term, Andrei came home and found his sister gone. So he scraped together his hard-earned savings, got himself a tourist visa, and went after her to London to bring her back.

JOHN: How did he know where she was, and that she needed his help?

SHERLOCK: The dancing men, John. She must have managed to write and post a letter to him in the same code, to tell him of her plight. The code probably goes back a long way. A shared secret from when they were both kids, I assume.

JOHN: That’s brave of her.

SHERLOCK: And clever, too. So, Andrei made it to London, found the school building where she was being held, and made contact with her – probably also by dancing men scribbled somewhere where she could see them from a window. And one night he got her out. He’d already rented the room at The Warren, so he took her there under cover of darkness, hiding her even from the landlady and his fellow lodgers to make sure she couldn't be betrayed. Then he went off to organise their return to Russia.

JOHN: But Grunerova sent someone after him, and they killed him?

SHERLOCK: Yes.

JOHN: But how did Grunerova trace him?

SHERLOCK: That’s the irony of it.

JOHN _(blankly):_ I don’t see it.

SHERLOCK: Don’t you? Well, put yourself into Andrei’s shoes. If _you_ were in a foreign country, up against a gang of criminals, and you didn’t know the language well, and you didn’t know whether the police could be trusted – where would you turn for help?

JOHN _(immediately):_ To my embassy, of course. _(He slaps his hand against his forehead.)_ Damn.

SHERLOCK: Precisely. Of course Andrei will have gone to the Russian embassy, if only to arrange for a passport for his sister to travel home on. And there, inevitably, his case will have come to the attention of the Head of the Consular Section, which deals with all such requests.

JOHN: Mr Koshkin.

SHERLOCK: The same.

_John brings his fist down on the arm of his chair in a gesture of frustration._

SHERLOCK: All Koshkin had to do was have Andrei followed discreetly to find out where Katia was hiding. Once they knew, the embassy just had to fend Andrei off whenever he came back to enquire, maybe under the pretext of administrative delays, maybe by demanding money that he didn’t have, until the chance offered to dispose of him permanently. And their next step will be -

JOHN: - getting their hands back on the girl, right?

 _Sherlock nods. John shifts in his chair, visibly unsettled._  
  
JOHN: So they know she’s at The Warren? But then nobody’s safe there any more! Next thing we’ll know, these guys will have gunned down Mrs Warren and her daughter and the other lodgers, too, just to get at Katia!

SHERLOCK: Ah, no. They’re all quite safe for the moment. Mr Koshkin’s people may be ruthless, but they’re not stupid. I doubt they’d ever planned to kill Johnson either. I bet they’re not happy at all how that attracted far too much attention. No, they’ll get the girl back, without the need for more bloodshed, if they just wait.

JOHN: Wait for what?

SHERLOCK: For her to get so hungry that she’ll find herself forced to leave the house after all, in search of her brother and of food. No need to take the castle by storm if you can just as well starve it out. All they’ll do for the moment is keep up their watch on the place.

_John shifts in his chair again, unable to sit still._

JOHN: So right now, there’s a terrified girl still hiding up there in that attic room, all alone, and hungry, and too frightened to sleep, and still waiting for her brother who’s never gonna come back –

_He grimaces and breaks off, shaking his head. For a moment, all that can be heard is the even breathing of John’s own peacefully sleeping child. John quickly glances across at her, then lowers his head. His fingers open and close a couple of times._

_Sherlock waits motionlessly for John to compose himself. Eventually, John looks back up at his friend._

JOHN _(back in a deliberately calm tone):_ Explain something to me.

SHERLOCK: Yes?

JOHN: Operation Red Circle. You say that half a year ago, the police officially identified twenty-eight possible victims of systematic, organised child abuse, and at least six possible perpetrators, right here in the middle of London.

_Sherlock nods._

JOHN: Then how come all the girls on that list except one are still stuck in that school? And all the men on the list are still at large?

SHERLOCK: That’s because the wrong people got hold of the list.

JOHN _(disquieted):_ It got leaked?

SHERLOCK: No, it was confiscated.

JOHN _(surprised):_ What?

SHERLOCK _(evenly):_ It was confiscated. Almost as soon as it was drawn up, men in dark suits walked into the offices of the Child Abuse Unit at New Scotland Yard and convinced the head of that department that it was in the interest of national security that they abandon their investigation.

JOHN _(aghast):_ _What?_

SHERLOCK: It happens, John. _(With a wry smile)_ Why do you think _I’m_ sitting here right now?

JOHN: What’s national security got to do with covering up for a gang of pedophiles?

SHERLOCK: Well, in their view, all the men in suits did was to open the investigators' eyes to certain obvious truths. Mr Koshkin is a high-ranking diplomat, John. That means he enjoys diplomatic immunity. The man is literally above the law.

JOHN: But the others? Grunerova herself? And her other customers, or whatever we're supposed to call them?

SHERLOCK: Insufficient evidence. The court deemed that the police didn't even have enough for a warrant to search the school.

JOHN _(raising his eyebrows):_ Did the magistrate get a visit from the men in suits, too?

SHERLOCK: Possibly. At any rate, nobody at the Met was happy about it, but there was nothing they could do. So Operation Red Circle was duly shelved, long before it could ever produce any justiciable results.

JOHN _(leaning forward in his chair, angrily):_ They just let them get away with it? And now they’ve gone from child abuse to murder, you’re letting them get away with that, too? Or why else aren’t you telling Greg what we know about Andrei’s and Johnson’s deaths?

SHERLOCK _(defensively):_ Because there _is_ no actual proof that the girl in the attic room at The Warren really is Katia Zima, John! I suppose if we went back to the morgue, we'd easily the find traces of carbonised Paraguayan hardwood on the tips of Andrei’s fingers. But even if there’s irrefutable forensic evidence that he was the one who put the dancing men on Johnson’s garage – without witnesses, there’s still no proof that it was really Mr Koshkin’s minions who killed him and Johnson! I know that everything I’ve just told you sounds compelling, and there’s no doubt in my mind that it is true, but it’s technically nothing but conjecture!

_John’s indignation positively propels him out of his seat._

JOHN: If there's no proof, let's go and find it! I can't believe you’re not even trying! _(He balls his hands into fists at his side.)_ What's got into you? These men are _scum_ , Sherlock. And you’re _protecting_ them!

SHERLOCK _(quietly):_ I’m not protecting _them_.

_John stands glaring down at his friend for a moment, but then the strange emphasis on the last word registers with him, and he frowns._

JOHN: What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: I’m not protecting them. I’m protecting myself. _(He gestures with his hand to encompass both John and the sleeping child.)_ And you. And Rosie. And maybe even our friends the clueless blundering police officers.

JOHN _(incredulously):_ What? You’re – are you saying you're _afraid_ of these guys? Afraid, _you?_

_The idea seems so strange to John that he seems to have difficulty putting it into words._

SHERLOCK _(evenly):_ Sit down, and I’ll tell you why.

_John sinks back down into his seat, shaking his head in bewilderment._

SHERLOCK: I did try to go after them, you know. When the official investigation was stalled, Greg Lestrade, who was no happier about it than you are right now, of course brought the matter to me.

JOHN: Ah. And what stopped _you?_

SHERLOCK _(with a wry smile):_ I ran full speed into a brick wall.

_John raises his eyebrows._

SHERLOCK: I went to the ballet school, equipped with a lovely cover story, as a businessman who had dealings with Russia. I told them one of my girlfriends over there had a teenage daughter who was a very promising ballet dancer, and who'd be just the candidate for one of Madame Grunerova's scholarships. It was a good story, complete with photos and totally genuine-looking certificates, as pretty a piece of falsification as you could wish. And a very tasty bait, too, I thought, once I’d photoshopped Molly Hooper’s old pictures from her teenage dance school days to make her look a bit more enthusiastic.

_John’s eyebrows rise even higher into his hair._

JOHN: But that didn't impress Grunerova?

SHERLOCK: No. I didn’t even get to talk to her in person. Her deputy, an Englishwoman who I suspect turns a blind eye to her principal's extra-legal activities, merely told me to bring the girl to London for her next school holidays and enrol her in one of their public classes, and they'd see about the scholarship then.

JOHN: At least that confirms that they’ve got their own recruiting system.

SHERLOCK: And that's literally the only information I got out of them.

JOHN: It’s not like you to let that stop you.

SHERLOCK: It didn't. That _wasn’t_ the brick wall.

JOHN: Oh.

_Sherlock looks down, his eyes travelling across the worn red rug on the floor of the sitting room, until its pattern blurs and then transforms into a different kind of red carpet, this one plush and shiny and well-kept._

 

* * *

 

 _It’s revealed to be part of_ _**the interior of a Russian Orthodox church in London.** _ _The vaulted stone building is furnished in the traditional splendour of the Eastern churches, walls decorated with wood panelling and gilded ornaments, and lit with clusters of long, thin devotional candles on high polished brass stands. A heavy cloud of incense hangs in the air, suggesting that a church service has just ended. A bearded young man in the plain black cassock of a deacon or other minor clergyman is moving quietly around, collecting prayer books and removing stumps of burned-down candles. In the space between the now empty pews for the parishioners and the iconostasis that separates the nave of the church from the inner sanctuary, a very slim woman stands in front of an icon depicting the Madonna with the Infant Jesus. The woman wears an elegant black coat, and her head is covered loosely by an equally black scarf adorned with a border of gold embroidery. Seen from behind, it’s difficult to tell her age, but she holds herself very upright. The young deacon passes her on his way into the vestry with a civil smile. She can be seen to nod silently back to him. He’s been gone for no more than a minute when a shadow falls across the woman’s back, and a quiet voice speaks up behind her. To do her credit, she doesn’t even flinch._

SHERLOCK’s VOICE _(off-screen):_ Suffer little children, and forbid them not to come unto me...

WOMAN _(with a slight Slavic accent):_...for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

_The woman turns on her heel to face the newcomer. She’s of middle age, her sharp-boned face tanned so deeply as to make the skin look leathery. Her hair is dyed jet black and drawn rigidly back from her face into a chignon, half-covered by the headscarf. Her eyes are dark, too, accentuated with strong strokes of kohl, and they have a cold, hard glitter to them._

SHERLOCK _(in the present, voiceover):_ La Grunerova. Cool as ice, haughty as a baroness, poisonous as a cobra.

 _**In flashback again,** _ _Sherlock in his long coat and Mrs Grunerova in her elegant widow's attire stand facing each other in the church, two dark figures in stark contrast to the red-and-gold resplendence of their surroundings, appraising each other. There's an enigmatic smile playing around Grunerova's thin, very red lips. She looks her opponent up and down, apparently little impressed with what she sees. Sherlock's advantage in height doesn't seem to bother her at all._

GRUNEROVA: I’ve been expecting you to waylay me for some time, Mr Holmes. Allow me to express my amusement at your choice of location. I'm sure you know that in the time-honoured tradition of both the Eastern and the Western churches, those within a consecrated space enjoy sanctuary?

SHERLOCK _(with a curl of his lip):_ Like diplomatic immunity?

GRUNEROVA: You would do well to wonder whether I was talking about myself, or about you.

SHERLOCK _(with perfect equanimity):_ You know who I am. You know I'm not likely to be impressed by empty threats.

GRUNEROVA: Show me your hand.

_Sherlock hesitates for a moment at this strange request, then slowly raises his right hand and holds it out towards her, palm outwards. Mrs Grunerova smiles._

GRUNEROVA: _That_ is what I'd call empty.

_A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches. Mrs Grunerova continues in the same lightly mocking tone as before._

GRUNEROVA: I find it funny to see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it, Mr Holmes. I doubt anyone could do it better - not even your almighty brother, I assume. But it is rather pathetic all the same.

_Sherlock lets his hand sink down._

SHERLOCK: Show me yours, then.

GRUNEROVA: With pleasure. My own hand is so strong that I can afford to show it. I know I have nothing to fear. _(She glances around the church.)_ In here, or outside.

SHERLOCK _(in a voice full of contempt):_ Why, His Grace the Bishop a customer of yours, too?

_Mrs Grunerova bristles in sudden genuine outrage at the suggestion, but only for a moment. When she speaks up, she’s already back in her former tone of smooth superiority._

GRUNEROVA: I'm not expecting you to understand what draws me to this place. I know you think this is where dreamers gather.

SHERLOCK: Isn't it?

GRUNEROVA: It is. And I’m a fulfiller of dreams.

SHERLOCK _(harshly):_ You’re a corruptor of dreams.

GRUNEROVA: I exact a price, if that’s what you mean. _(With an affected shrug)_ That's how it is. Dreams never come true for free. There’s always a catch.

_She turns back towards the icon of the Holy Virgin and contemplates it for a moment. In the warm, flickering light from the devotional candles set up in front of the picture, the Madonna looks back at her with all the characteristic gravity of the Eastern churches' iconographic tradition. Her narrow, pale, almond-eyed face peeks out from the shadow of a dark blue gown that covers both the head and the body, infinitely calm, and infinitely sad._

GRUNEROVA _(to Sherlock, but with her eyes still on the icon):_ Look at her. She's beautiful, isn't she? The Queen of Heaven, unrivalled and unassailable, reigning supreme. And yet she knows already how it will end. Look at her eyes. You can see it there. _(She turns her face back to Sherlock.)_ How did she feel, do you think, when she had to watch her own flesh and blood die in slow and cruel agony, and there was nothing she could do to stop it?

_For a moment, a muscle in Sherlock’s face twitches, but he has himself under control again very quickly._

SHERLOCK _(slowly, with emphasis on every single word):_ Show. me. your. hand.

_Grunerova’s razor-thin pencilled eyebrows come alive, quivering as if with a secret kind of amusement, like the short antennae of an insect._

GRUNEROVA: I just have.

_Sherlock studies her face with narrowed eyes for a moment. Then without another word, he turns on his heel and strides out of the church, leaving Mrs Grunerova looking after him with her eyebrows still laughing at him._

 

* * *

 

 _**In the present,** _ _in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, John wrinkles his nose._

JOHN: Nasty.

SHERLOCK: Quite.

JOHN: But how did you know it wasn't just bravado?

SHERLOCK: I didn’t know, actually. That wasn’t the brick wall either.

JOHN: Okay…

SHERLOCK: The brick wall sent a car for me not ten minutes later, and I really didn’t feel in the mood to play hide and seek, so I got in.

 

* * *

  

_The scene dissolves again, and refocuses as a_ _**flashback to Mycroft Holmes’ office at the Diogenes Club.** _

_Sherlock’s older brother is installed in his desk chair, impeccably dressed in his usual three piece suit, but he looks harassed and dissatisfied. His hand is toying with an expensive fountain pen, betraying his tension. His eyes are on Sherlock, who is still in his coat and pacing up and down in front of the desk, visibly agitated._

SHERLOCK _(in a voice sharp with anger):_ And you’re really going to try and _stop_ me -

MYCROFT _(with barely disguised impatience):_ That investigation was closed for a reason, Sherlock!

SHERLOCK _(with a dismissive gesture of his hand):_ Reason of state, you mean? What exactly’s going to happen to this country if I go after a handful of dirty old Russians? World War Three?

MYCROFT: I’m more concerned about what’s going to happen to _you_.

SHERLOCK: Which is what?

MYCROFT _(in a flat tone, which is strangely at odds with the severity of his words):_ You’ll start feeling sick. Then your hair will fall out. And then you’ll be in hospital with multiple organ failure, and by the time they find out the reason, it’ll be far too late to do anything about it.

_This is apparently not the answer Sherlock was expecting. He halts in mid-stride, and whirls around to face his brother._

SHERLOCK _(incredulously):_ _What?_

MYCROFT: You heard me.

_Sherlock snorts._

SHERLOCK: Are you serious?  
  
MYCROFT _(sarcastically):_ No, I’m making hilarious jokes. It’s widely considered to be one of my greatest talents. _(He puts the fountain pen down, aligning it perfectly with a closed, unmarked folder on his desk.)_ What the police don’t know, Sherlock, and what _you_ don’t know, is where and how these dirty old men started their careers. They may be successful businessmen and respectable civil servants now, but their acquaintance goes a long way back. To the Eighties, in fact, to the time of communist rule in the Soviet Union. And to an institution whose very existence has always been denied by those who were in charge of it. It was known as Laboratory 12.

SHERLOCK: The KGB’s secret poison research facility?

MYCROFT: Yes. All these men, whose identity the Metropolitan Police ascertained with such diligence, were recruits in the Soviet secret service back then, and they were all assigned to work at Laboratory 12. Mr Koshkin was their commanding officer.

SHERLOCK _(with a humourless laugh):_ They’re literally a red circle?

MYCROFT: Yes. A remarkable flash of wit on the part of our police, to pick that name for their investigation. If unintentional.

_Sherlock abruptly pulls out the visitor’s chair from under Mycroft’s desk and drops into it, willing to listen, at least for the moment._

MYCROFT: There’s no doubt that they picked up a lot of useful information in their job, and made a lot of useful contacts. Chemical poisons, biological poisons, nuclear poisons – you name it, they had them at their disposition.

SHERLOCK: Laboratory 12 was shut down at the end of the Cold War.

MYCROFT: And almost immediately reopened under a new name. We know it still exists. And we also know what came out of it in 2006 and cruelly killed a previously healthy man, in the prime of his life, right here in London, right under our noses, just because he’d fallen out of favour with the Kremlin, and made some powerful enemies there.

SHERLOCK: Alexander Litvinenko.

MYCROFT: The same.

SHERLOCK: You told me to keep out of that one, too.

MYCROFT: Well, if I may remind you, you spent most of the year 2006 in an opiate-induced stupor. Not the ideal prerequisite to trust you with an assassination case that was political dynamite.

SHERLOCK: Is that what the Red Circle case is, too?

MYCROFT: No, not unless we make it so. The Red Circle is a private enterprise, and whatever they may do to protect themselves won’t be actively backed by the Kremlin. But it would certainly look like that to the public. And I very much doubt that the happiness or misery of a handful of teenage girls is worth upsetting the fragile political equilibrium between the western world and our incalculable eastern neighbour. Please don’t throw away decades of painstaking diplomacy by insisting that it is.

SHERLOCK _(with a curl of his lip):_ You do realise you’re tempting me badly?

_Mycroft sighs and folds his hands on the desk in front of him. When he speaks again, it is in an almost pleading tone._

MYCROFT: Sherlock, don’t be childish. This is not about the girls, it’s about _you_ . I know I’ve never been able to stop you poisoning yourself when you’ve got it into your head to do so, but I’m going to do everything in my power to keep anyone _else_ from succeeding at it. Don’t make medical history just to spite me, brother dear. I assure you this country doesn’t need a second famous case of death by polonium poisoning.

SHERLOCK: You really think they’ll go that far? Just for a handful of teenage girls?

MYCROFT: If anyone has access to the stuff, it’s these people. You’d do well to assume that Madame Grunerova said rather less than she meant when you spoke to her in the church.

SHERLOCK: If _she_ were properly investigated, wouldn’t the Red Circle drop her like a hot potato, and let her take all the blame?

MYCROFT: No. There are many precedents that the extraordinary ties of loyalty that link former KGB agents also extend to their late comrades’ widows.

_Sherlock exhales audibly at this new revelation, and seems to look inward for a moment. Before his mind’s eye, for the fraction of a second, the icon from the Russian church reappears, the focus now on the soft, round-cheeked face of the Infant Jesus. In a flash, another baby takes its place. This one is also on a blue-clad woman's arm, but very real and contemporary, its face with the wide blue eyes framed in a soft cotton hat and a pink flower-print jacket._

SHERLOCK _(facing Mycroft again, abruptly):_ You’re wrong.

MYCROFT _(with a sardonic smile):_ Unlikely.

SHERLOCK: Yes, you are. This isn’t about me. She wasn’t talking about me.

MYCROFT: What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: “How would it feel to watch your own flesh and blood die in slow and cruel agony, and there was nothing you could do to stop it?” That’s what she said.

MYCROFT _(evenly):_ I know. _(He gives the folder on his desk a light pat with his hand.)_ I have the transcript right here.

SHERLOCK _(growing visibly agitated):_ But don’t you see what that means? That’s not me. That’s – _(He breaks off and swallows hard. When he speaks again, it’s in a much lower voice, and it has actually started shaking.)_ That’s a _child._

_Mycroft’s eyebrows rise in understanding._

MYCROFT: And you mean not just any child?

 

* * *

 

 _**Back in the present, in the sitting room at 221B Baker Street,** _ _John is on his feet again. All the colour has drained from his face, making it look ashen. When he speaks, his voice sounds choked with suppressed emotion._

JOHN: _My_ child? _Rosie?_ They meant they’d go after _Rosie?_

SHERLOCK _(calmly):_ That’s how I understood it.

_John lets out a bark of laughter that sounds almost hysterical._

JOHN: These guys were threatening to poison _my child_ , just to make _you_ drop the investigation?

SHERLOCK: Well, my brother’s assessment of his abilities may be flawed in other respects, but he _isn’t_ known for joking about such things. And the Red Circle aren’t exactly known for their empathy towards defenceless children, either.

JOHN: Impossible. That’s can’t be true. That’d be just - monstrous.

SHERLOCK: Well, I decided not to take any chances.

JOHN: But how come I’ve never heard a single word about this?

 _Sherlock hesitates for a moment. When he does reply, it’s in a quiet, almost gentle voice._  
  
SHERLOCK: You weren’t exactly talking to me at the time.

_John stares at his friend for a moment in bewilderment, then groans as he understands._

JOHN: God. _God._ I – you – we -  
  
_He breaks off, finally overwhelmed by emotion after all.  
_

SHERLOCK: You’d just lost your wife, and Rosie had lost her mother. It didn’t seem the ideal moment to ask you to take down the Russian nuclear mafia together. So I picked a fight with a different bad guy. That story you know.

_John rubs a hand across his face, then meets Sherlock’s eyes again. He looks as if he’s just aged several years._

JOHN: You dropped that whole case, twenty-eight girls, to protect _my_ little daughter? When I wasn’t even talking to you?

_Sherlock shrugs a little awkwardly._

JOHN: And they – the Red Circle just dropped it then, too? You’re sure of that?

SHERLOCK: Given your daughter’s perfectly normal physical development and good health during the past six months, I’d say they did.

_There’s another pause. Then John suddenly holds out his hands for his daughter, who is still deep asleep in the baby carrier._

JOHN _(firmly):_ Give her to me.

SHERLOCK: She’ll wake up.

JOHN: I don’t care.

 

* * *

 

 _ **Some minutes later,** _ _all the lights are back on in both the sitting room and the kitchen of 221B Baker Street. The calm atmosphere of the past hour or so is completely shattered. John is the one walking up and down with Rosie now, holding her in his arms while she snuggles against him, half-awake and grumbling. His steps are quick and nervous, belying his agitation, quite unlike Sherlock’s long even strides that sent Rosie straight to sleep before. Sherlock himself, minus the baby carrier now, is pottering around in the still messy kitchen, busy with the kettle._

SHERLOCK _(to John, over his shoulder):_ It’s technically not your fault those girls are still stuck, you know. Who knows whether we’d have managed to smoke the Red Circle out, even if we’d tried back when -

JOHN _(unhappily):_ I know. _(In a lower voice, to himself)_ Not helping.

_He walks into the kitchen and sits down with Rosie in one of the chairs. Sherlock screws on the lid of the bedtime bottle he’s been preparing and hands it to John. Rosie starts suckling sleepily._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ We really can’t do this anymore, can we? Take cases, I mean. Not if this is how they turn out. _(He shakes his head in resignation.)_ Chickens and stick figures. Bloody _hell._

_Sherlock, busy putting the formula container back into a cupboard, doesn’t respond._

JOHN: What was I thinking? I mean, when we came back and rebuilt this place, it felt just like - _(He breaks off, then continues on a different tack.)_ I mean, that ventriloquist’s dummy turned out to be a practical joke, and the viking turned out to be an old friend, so there was no reason - but this, this is just -

SHERLOCK _(matter-of-factly):_ Frightening. I know.

JOHN: If they followed Andrei to The Warren, and watched the place twenty-four seven -

SHERLOCK: - then it was watched when _we_ all went there yesterday afternoon, too, yes.

_Rosie hiccups suddenly, and starts coughing. John secures the milk bottle and props her upright, patting her back._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ So, an hour ago, you were still pretending that I could just drop out of the investigation if I wanted nothing to do with it. What difference would that make now? None at all, right? We’re in this up to our necks, and they know we are.

_Sherlock responds with a rather guilty half-smile. John heaves an audible sigh. When he speaks again, it is in a deliberately calm tone._

JOHN: All right. You tell me what to do. You always know what to do, right? Go on. What’s your expert advice on how to save a little child from being – _(He breaks off and laughs a bit hysterically again, as if he still can’t quite believe what he’s saying.)_ – from being exposed to lethal levels of alpha radiation?

SHERLOCK _(immediately, as if he’s learned the following little speech by rote):_ Throw out any baby food you’ve bought since we first went to The Warren, and get replacements at a random supermarket in a part of town where you’d normally never go shopping. Don’t eat out anywhere with her. Accept no food or drink for her from anyone you don’t trust implicitly.

_John’s eyes inadvertently go to the almost empty milk bottle in his hand. Sherlock, seeing it, grimaces wryly._

JOHN: You’ve really thought this through, have you?

SHERLOCK: I’ve been thinking about little else since I saw Andrei Zima dead in the morgue, John.

_The two friends look at each other in silence for a moment. Rosie, oblivious, finishes her bottle._

SHERLOCK _(to John, back in his former matter-of-fact tone):_ The same precautions should apply to yourself, too, by the way. Just in case. Polonium is by far at its worst when ingested.

JOHN: Is that why you insisted on cooking yourself tonight?

SHERLOCK: Yes. Better not trust anyone else with that at the moment. _(He attempts a smile.)_ But the eggs and bacon _were_ threatening to go off, too.

_He takes the empty milk bottle from John and puts it in the sink with the other used dishes._

SHERLOCK: Oh, and maybe Rosie shouldn’t go to the nursery for a bit, either.

JOHN: Yeah, well… It's the weekend now anyway. _(He closes his eyes wearily for a moment, then looks back up at his friend. The expression on his face is one of plain desperation now.)_ Sherlock?

SHERLOCK: Hmm?  
  
JOHN: What do we _do_?

SHERLOCK: Keep a low profile, for the time being. And your eyes peeled. And your gun cocked.

JOHN: That’s all?

SHERLOCK: There’s still a chance we can get away with pretending that we don’t know who Andrei really is, and that we haven’t made the connection with the Red Circle yet.

JOHN: Meaning we’re gonna leave the ladies at The Warren to fend for themselves now?

SHERLOCK: For the time being, yes.

JOHN: Can’t you warn them at least ? You know, put some more dancing men on Johnson’s garage, or something? Katia Zima must be going mad in that attic, not knowing what’s going on.

SHERLOCK _(with a touch of impatience):_ Far too risky, John. I told you, our only chance is to play dumb. And besides, what would you tell her? “Sorry, your brother’s dead and the bad guys are already knocking on your door, but don’t worry, you’ll be okay”? That’s neither kind nor sensible.

JOHN: Then what _are_ you going to do?

SHERLOCK: I’m going to bed now. And so should you. And tomorrow, while you two are having a perfectly innocent family weekend, I’ll do something that neither my brother nor the Russian nuclear mafia can possibly object to.

JOHN _(sceptically):_ And that is?

SHERLOCK: I'm going to have curry for lunch.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Next day – Saturday – around lunchtime. Outside Angelo’s restaurant._ ** _The place looks quite busy. Through the latticed window, every table seems to be occupied.  
_

_Sherlock, in his coat and scarf, approaches the little restaurant from the other side of the street, walking quickly and purposefully through groups of people in business attire who are on their way to and from lunch breaks. He pushes the door of the restaurant open and enters. Through the window, the portly, white-shirted figure of Angelo can be seen approaching Sherlock with open arms and a welcoming smile on his face. With a sweeping gesture, he invites the detective to sit down. But Sherlock remains standing, shaking his head to indicate that he’s not here to eat._

_Flying up for a bird’s eye view of the street outside Angelo’s, and then across the roof of the house, over roof tiles and chimneys, the scene moves to the back of the property. It’s far less pretty than the front of the building. There’s a dark, dank backyard, enclosed on three sides by brick walls. The only source of light on ground floor level is the window of the restaurant kitchen - milky glass with the_ _clinical brightness of linolite lamps behind it. The yard is just big enough for a row of wheelie bins and a low stack of torn and flattened cardboard boxes that once held the restaurant's supplies, waiting to be collected for recycling. To the left of the kitchen window, there’s a closed garage door._

_There’s nobody around, and all is quiet – until the garage door suddenly bangs open from inside. There’s the loud noise of an engine being revved up. A moment later, a heavy motorbike emerges from the garage, driven by a man in a black leather jacket, jeans and rather flashy cowboy boots. His face is hidden inside the crash helmet. The bike is indeed a vintage model, but in excellent shape, all gleaming chrome and polished leather. Its rider steers it expertly around the corner of the yard towards the street, narrowly avoiding the closest wheelie bin, and is gone._

_Back in the yard, Angelo steps out of the garage to close the doors again, looking after the departed motor biker with a fond shake of his head._

 ANGELO _(under his breath):_ Don’t wreck my baby, now.

 

* * *

 

 **_At around the same time, aboard the converted Royal Air Force Voyager_ ** _that serves the Prime Minister, the Royal Family and other dignitaries of the realm for travelling abroad._ _Mycroft Holmes is seated in one of the comfortable beige-and-navy blue leather seats in an otherwise empty row towards the back of the plane. He has an open file on the little pull-out table in front of him, absorbed in the study of its contents. From the front of the plane, voices come floating towards him._

MALE VOICE _(off-screen, in an appeasing tone):_ Madam Prime Minister, I really would say that given our bargaining position with the European Union, the outcome of the talks could have been even -   

FEMALE VOICE _(off-screen, rather sharply):_ Yes, thank you, Sir Edwin. I know what to tell our press when we land. 

_Mycroft glances up with a long-suffering sigh, then lowers his eyes again and reads on. A moment later, a shadow falls over him. A young man, looking very smart in the dress uniform of the Royal Air Force, stands at his elbow, holding a small tray._

FLIGHT ATTENDANT _(deferentially):_ Your tea, sir.

MYCROFT _(absently):_ Yes, thank you.  
  
_He makes a token gesture of making room on his table. The flight attendant pours a cup of tea from the small teapot on his tray, then sets both down in front of Mycroft, together with a miniature sugar bowl and milk jug. The tea is steaming gently. Mycroft nods in acknowledgment, his eyes already back on his reading. The young man withdraws silently. Mycroft turns a page, then reaches for his teacup, raises it to his lips and takes a sip. He immediately pulls a face, puts the cup back down and pushes it away, looking deeply dissatisfied._

 

* * *

 

 **_West Hendon Broadway._ ** _The eastern side of the A5, which doubles as the local high street here, is blocked off with a high wooden fence, adorned with traffic signs warning road users of construction work ahead and plenty of graffiti. The western side, however, is accessible. Just like the nearby Orme Street where Mrs Warren’s home is located, this place has seen better times, with most of the houses badly in need of touching up the paintwork at least. This impression is only heightened by the fact that although it’s Saturday lunchtime and the modest shops lining the street are open for business, there are few people out and about. There’s a call shop and Western Union agency, a travel agency advertising budget flights to the Middle East, a hairdresser specialising in African hair, and a small Indian takeaway; followed by a halal butcher, a pharmacy, and a shop selling fishing tackle.  
_

_A motorbike comes speeding up the almost empty road - the same that exited Angelo’s backyard only a short time before. The noise of the engine echoes around  the confined space between the houses on one side and the hoarding on the other. Then the driver comes to a halt in front of the Indian takeaway, throttles the engine and removes his crash helmet, revealing the face of Sherlock Holmes, but with his eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses that rival those Shinwell Johnson wore when Sherlock and John first met him, and with his hair slicked back from his high forehead. He looks oddly at ease in his slightly ridiculous outfit as he approaches the door of the curry shop. He even walks with a bit of a swagger._

**_A moment later, inside the curry shop._ ** _The place is tidy, but cramped. There is barely room for more than one customer at a time to stand in front of the counter that runs the length of the room on one side. The tiled wall on the other side seems to have been transformed into the community noticeboard, covered three deep with adverts, business cards and flyers from other local shops and services, posters for events, handwritten lost and found notices, and dozens of small ads for flats to let and used cars for sale._

_Behind the counter, a teenage Asian girl in a white t-shirt and with her jet black hair in a thick braid is busy putting together Sherlock’s order while he waits, the crash helmet hanging from his arm. He has pushed his sunglasses up into his hair.  
_

_As the girl picks up a little plastic box and starts filling it with rice, she calls back over her shoulder towards the open doorway into the kitchen at the back of the shop._

GIRL: Dad? Seen Shinwell Johnson lately?

_From the kitchen, there’s the clatter of pots and pans. Then a man emerges to stand in the doorway. He’s obviously the patriarch of the family business, grey-bearded, white-aproned, a paper cap on his grey hair and a tea towel over his shoulder, holding a ladle._

CHEF _(with a slight Indian accent, and in a doubtful tone):_ Shinwell Johnson? He was in here for lunch just yesterday, wasn’t he?

GIRL _(indulgently, while she fills the next box):_ Well, I was at school yesterday, dad, I wouldn’t know. _(She indicates Sherlock with a nod of her head.)_ The gentleman was asking after him.

_Her father turns his attention to Sherlock, looks him up and down and then outside. Through the steamy glass of the shop window, the outline of the parked motorbike is clearly visible. Apparently, that’s enough by way of credentials._

CHEF _(to Sherlock):_ Ain’t seen him today, sorry. Isn’t he at his workshop? _(Without waiting for an answer, he turns to address his daughter in a slightly petulant tone.)_ He _was_ here yesterday, though, I remember that. Came in right after that crazy Russian.

GIRL: What crazy Russian? _(She puts the lid on the box. To Sherlock, with a smile)_ We get all sorts around here, but “crazy Russian” is new.

_Sherlock returns the smile, his expression polite but carefully disinterested._

CHEF _(to his daughter):_ I told you about him. The big student from Mrs Warren’s that ordered the cheapest curry and then couldn’t pay for it.

GIRL: Ah. _(With playful disapproval)_ You mean the one that you sent to the cash machine down the road just because he was missing all of fifty p, you old cheapskate. _(She shakes her head at her father, then plucks down a plastic carrier bag from where a bunch of them hangs on a nail, and puts the boxes of Sherlock’s order into it.)_ I could’ve told you he’d be too embarrassed to come back, the poor chap.

CHEF _(with a finger raised in a gesture of warning):_ You be careful, young lady. _(Addressing Sherlock, as if looking for an ally)_ She’d feed all of West Hendon for free if it was up to her, and we might as well put up the shutters for good!

_The girl pouts, but without any real ill will, and proceeds to pack up paper napkins and plastic cutlery for Sherlock, too. Sherlock, in a perfect impression of complete indifference, remains silent._

CHEF _(to his daughter):_ And he wasn’t _poor_ , my dear, he was just stupid. I explained to him five times that he could save the delivery charge and afford the meal if he just took his lunch home himself. But somehow that didn’t get into his head. Insisted on having it delivered. _(To Sherlock, shaking his head at so much pig-headedness)_ And it was just around the corner, too!

_Sherlock shrugs in detached agreement._

GIRL _(to her father, indignantly):_ What, so you let his whole order go to waste, when you could have let him have it at a fifty p discount? _(She sniffs in disapproval.)_ And you call yourself a businessman!

CHEF _(equally indignant):_ It _didn’t_ go to waste, just so you know. Shinwell Johnson was there, wasn’t he, waiting in line. So what does he do when I send that young blockhead out to the cash machine? He puts a fifty p piece on the counter and says to me, “The cash machine’s broken, mate. I’ll go after him and bring him his bleedin’ curry, it’s just across the yard from my workshop.” And that’s what he did. Left on his bike, not two minutes after the Russian, with a bag dangling from each handle. _(To Sherlock, with a laugh)_ I’m the only sensible man left in this part of town. Can you believe it? Surrounded by bloody soft-hearted do-gooders on all sides. But that’s Shinwell Johnson for you. He’d do anything for anyone.

_If Sherlock has trouble maintaining his impassive expression at this, nobody notices. The girl and her father are far too absorbed in their little skirmish._

GIRL: Honestly, dad, you should be grateful! Who’d’ve had time for the delivery, with you on your own in here, and all the guys from the road works coming in to be fed as well just then?

CHEF _(to his daughter, in an exasperated tone):_ Who’d’ve had the time, you mean, what with the young ladies hereabouts caring more about getting five A-levels than making a living for their family?

GIRL _(putting her hands on her hips, genuinely hurt):_ Dad, that’s not -

_But her father has already turned towards Sherlock, again as if appealing to him to agree. But in spite of his tone, the expression on the man’s face is affectionate and indeed very proud, and not disgruntled at all._

_The girl, seeing it, blushes furiously, and tries to change the subject by handing Sherlock the bag with his neatly packed order over the counter._

GIRL _(to Sherlock, rather bashfully):_ That’s four ninety-five then, please.

_Sherlock hands her a five pound note from the pocket of his leather jacket, and receives his order and his change._

SHERLOCK _(to the girl, in a studiously casual tone):_ If you’re really serious about getting into Cambridge though, you may want to consider swapping Media Studies for a subject that’s got at least a marginal chance of being taken seriously by the admissions board.

_The girl and her father stand dumbstruck._

SHERLOCK _(putting his sunglasses back on):_ Cheers!

_And he walks out, unceremoniously dumping the bag with his takeaway into the bin by the door as he goes._

* * *

 

 **_Baker Street, in the neighbourhood of No. 221, a little later._ ** _Sherlock and John come walking together along the pavement towards the door of No. 221. Sherlock is back in his usual attire. Only his hair is still in some disarray after combing out the gel he’d put in it for his motor biker persona. There’s nothing else left of the easy confidence that marked that role. Sherlock seems to be in a rather sombre mood now, hands in his pockets, almost shuffling his feet. The swagger is definitely gone._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ So you were right. About why Shinwell Johnson died in the same place and at the same time as Andrei Zima, I mean. 

SHERLOCK _(pensively):_ Mmh. And you were right, too.

JOHN: About what?

SHERLOCK: That it was my fault. 

JOHN _(looking up at his friend):_ What? I never said -

_Sherlock only gives him a sad little smile. Then he pulls his coat closer around him and walks on, clearly unwilling to pursue this particular line of thought any further. They pass Speedy’s café - no chairs and tables outside it at this time of the year - and approach their own front door when Sherlock suddenly stops dead._

JOHN _(surprised):_ What’s wrong?

_Sherlock points with his chin. On their doorstep lies a ginger tabby cat, on its side, with its forelegs and hind legs stretched out at an unnatural angle, stiff and motionless. Its mouth is wide open, revealing its sharp little teeth as if in a grimace of pain._

JOHN: What the hell -

_He takes a step forward, but Sherlock throws out his arm to keep his friend back._

SHERLOCK _(in a suddenly very tense voice):_ Don’t touch it. Or not without a dosimeter.

JOHN: What do you mean?

SHERLOCK: “Curiosity killed the cat.”

JOHN _(disquieted):_ It’s a warning? Then shouldn’t we -

_But Sherlock cuts him off, his eyes still on the dead cat. His voice is, if anything, even tenser than before._

SHERLOCK: Where did you say Rosie was?

JOHN: I didn’t. But she’s with Stella and Ted.

SHERLOCK _(glancing at his friend, distractedly):_ Who?

JOHN _(patiently):_ Stella and Ted. You met them at Rosie’s christening.

SHERLOCK _(relaxing fractionally):_ Ah. The retired SAS officer with the wife that runs a beauty parlour? Yellow tie and silly hat?

JOHN: Yes.

SHERLOCK: Their place or yours?

JOHN: Theirs. After what you told me last night, I thought she was better off somewhere out of town for the weekend.

_Sherlock’s eyes narrow with renewed suspicion._

SHERLOCK _(now sounding positively alarmed):_ You mean you arranged this only last night?

JOHN: What? No, we fixed the date weeks ago. They enjoy doing the grandparents thing, you know, they - what? _(He laughs incredulously as he realises the implications.)_ Sherlock, seriously. Stella and Ted go back a long way. And I’m sure they’re not for sale. 

SHERLOCK _(unsmiling):_ How long exactly?

JOHN _(with a sigh):_ They’re _my_ godparents, if you must know.

_This is apparently not the answer Sherlock was expecting._

SHERLOCK: Ah. _(A pause. He visibly takes a moment to digest the information. Then, in a much gentler, almost tentative tone)_ Many big squishy cuddles?

JOHN _(very earnestly):_ Many.

_There is an awkward moment of silence. Then several things happen at once. John opens his mouth to speak again, but just then, Sherlock’s eyes flicker from John’s face to a spot somewhere above John’s shoulder, and widen in alarm. At the same time, the roar of a car engine can be heard, approaching very fast. John spins around in surprise to see what’s coming at them. A small van is racing down the road towards them at top speed, its headlights huge and menacing, making straight for where they’re standing. Sherlock grabs John by the shoulder and pulls him back into what little shelter the doorway of Speedy’s café offers._

_At the last moment, the driver jams on the brakes, and the van comes to a screeching halt, its tyres scraping along the kerb. The passenger door bursts open, and with explosive energy, out jumps none other than Mrs Warren, again in her delivery driver uniform, again very red in the face, but this time clearly because she’s in a towering rage. Behind her, the van’s driver – a colleague of hers, by his identical uniform – kills the engine._

_Sherlock steps forward to confront the fuming Mrs Warren with the ghost of an amused smile on his face, clearly no longer worried at all about his and John’s personal safety. But she advances on him with an accusingly pointing finger, almost stabbing him in the face with it._

MRS WARREN _(shouting at Sherlock at the top of her voice):_ You! You – you goddamn _dickhead!_ I knew there was something wrong with him, I _told_ you there was something wrong with him, but did you listen? You’re bloody _useless!_

_John has instinctively stepped forward, as if to place himself protectively between his friend and the raging woman._

JOHN _(in a tone of concern):_ Mrs Warren! What’s happened?  
  
_Mrs Warren rounds on him, her finger still pointing at Sherlock._

MRS WARREN: He said there was nothing to worry about, didn’t he? You heard it. He said there was nothing he could do for me, when I was harbouring the worst kind of _criminal_ in my own home! A dirty, _disgusting_ -

_She runs out of breath, and has to pause for more._

JOHN _(soothingly):_ Just tell us what happened, please. Is this about your lodger?

MRS WARREN _(not appeased in the slightest, still seething with rage):_ Lodger? He’s a perv, a predator, that’s what he is, and he’s had it in for – _(Her voice cracks with fury.)_ – my daughter!

_Sherlock and John exchange a look._

JOHN _(to Mrs Warren, bewildered):_ What’s happened to your daughter?

MRS WARREN _(aping his surprised tone):_ What’s happened to my daughter? _(She snorts, her nostrils flaring impressively.)_ He tried to get his filthy paws on her, he did! Threw a sack over her head and dragged her into a car, him and his _pals_ , not ten paces from our own front door!  
  
_At this, both Sherlock and John immediately spring to attention._

JOHN _(alarmed):_ How do you –

SHERLOCK _(equally alarmed):_ Have you –

_But Mrs Warren rages on, oblivious to their questions._

MRS WARREN: Thank God the girls from Taiwan left this morning anyway, or I bet he’d’ve -

JOHN _(rather loudly, to make sure he gets through to her):_ Mrs Warren! Have you called the police?

MRS WARREN _(indignantly):_ Called the police? With her all bruised and shaken and crying, what d’you s’pose was the first thing the hospital did? _(Her anger flares up again, and she turns back to Sherlock. In an ugly tone of triumph)_ Didn’t see _that_ coming, did you? Never even entered your great big mind that that’s what he was after, did it? _(Spitting the words out with the utmost disgust)_ You men are all the same. Y’all think that good looks and a big mouth is all you need to get on in life. But I’m never falling for that sort of crap again! Not with you, and not with anyone else! 

SHERLOCK _(rather haughtily):_ Mrs Warren, if there’s any truth to your claim that your daughter has just been abducted by a sexual predator, your time would be much better employed in giving us all the pertinent details, rather than wasting your breath on even more ridiculous verbalisations of your otherwise very commendable protective instincts.

_That shuts Mrs Warren up for a moment, if only because she’s having trouble wrapping her head around that sentence. John takes the opportunity to intercede again._

JOHN _(in a deliberately calm tone):_ Tell us from the beginning, Mrs Warren. Your daughter was dragged into a car, but she’s in hospital now?

_John’s technique seems to be working. Mrs Warren takes a few deep breaths, then launches into her tale, with the same vigour as before, but in a less accusatory tone now._

MRS WARREN: Chantelle was on her way to the bus stop, she was just going down to the shopping arcade to meet some friends. Some bastards – two at least, maybe three, it looks like - put a sack over her head, pulled her into their car and drove off with her. In broad daylight! Can you believe it?

JOHN: And what makes you think your lodger was among the attackers?

MRS WARREN: Who else would it be, targeting her like that? And they were talking foreign, same as he did. _(With fierce pride)_ But she fought them and swore at them and screamed at them to let her go, my brave girl. She’s got a filthy tongue on her when she wants to, my Chantelle. She showed them all right that she wouldn’t be easy prey!

JOHN: And then?

MRS WARREN: Then they just stopped and kicked her out again, not even a mile from home. Dumped her like a parcel, in a quiet side street, and sped off. Some decent guys from the nearby mosque heard the commotion and saw her lying in the road. They called an ambulance, thinking it was an accident. Then the hospital called me.

_Sherlock, who has been following Mrs Warren’s tale with interest, now steps forward, his tone clipped, ready for action._

SHERLOCK: Description, please? 

MRS WARREN _(to Sherlock, immediately slipping back into her previous aggressive tone):_ She didn’t see them, did she, with a sack over her head?

SHERLOCK: Of her, I meant.

MRS WARREN: Oh. _(She squares her shoulders.)_ Chantelle Myranda Warren - that’s Myranda with a y - fifteen, long dark hair -

SHERLOCK _(looking Chantelle’s mother up and down quickly):_ \- on the short side, rather overweight, continue from there, please -

MRS WARREN _(sharply):_ She’s _not_ overweight, thank you very much! She’s tall for her age, and with her figure, she could do modelling!

_But Sherlock has clearly heard enough. He turns to John with an enterprising glint in his eyes._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ Well, come on! There’s not a moment to lose.

MRS WARREN: You’re coming along to the hospital?

_Sherlock gives her the look of pity that he usually reserves only for the most feeble-minded members of the London population._

SHERLOCK: No, of course not.

MRS WARREN _(surprised):_ Don’t you want to hear her evidence first hand?

SHERLOCK _(with a dismissive wave of his hand):_ Oh, waste of time. I’d take her story with a pinch of salt if I were you, too. That whole tall tale about the kidnap is probably untrue from start to finish.

MRS WARREN _(aghast): What?_

SHERLOCK: She very likely faked it just to get attention. _(With a shrug)_ Teenage girls tend to do that.

_Mrs Warren blanches at the suggestion, momentarily speechless with indignation. It makes her ruddy face look rather blotched._

JOHN _(with stern disapproval):_ Sherlock, _really_ -

SHERLOCK _(to Mrs Warren, unfazed):_ Might want to confiscate her phone and check her browser history for how to self-inflict authentic looking bruises. 

_John grimaces. And Mrs Warren, without another word, steps forward and, before Sherlock can do anything against it, resoundingly slaps him in the face._

_There’s a moment of stunned silence, then Mrs Warren lets out a low, wordless growl of satisfaction and turns on her heel back towards her patiently waiting colleague in his van. The man immediately starts the engine, and as soon as she’s inside and the door bangs closed, they speed off down the road._

JOHN _(looking after the van):_ Jesus. _(To Sherlock, with a hint of genuine concern)_ Not sure that was entirely undeserved, but are you all right?  

SHERLOCK _(absently rubbing his smarting cheek):_ Oh, excellent. Well, come on, John! This is a chance we’ll never get again! _(He energetically steps up to the curb and looks up and down the street for a cab. For once, none appears, so he sets off with long strides down the road. Over his shoulder)_ We’ll find a cab on Park Road. Come _on!_

JOHN _(jogging after him):_ Where are we going? 

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ John, think! Nobody’s just tried to kidnap Chantelle Warren. But someone’s definitely just tried to kidnap Katia Zima!

JOHN: They mistook Chantelle for Katia?

SHERLOCK: Of course! And they realised their mistake as soon as the girl they’d snatched started assaulting them with a torrent of abuse in that systematic affront to our native language that the linguists like to refer to as Multicultural London English. That could never have come out of the mouth of a Russian child trafficking victim!

JOHN: So Katia’s still in the house?

SHERLOCK _(speeding up to walk even faster):_ If we’re lucky, yes! And nobody else to get in the line of fire for once, with Chantelle in hospital and Mrs Warren on her way there and the Taiwanese girls gone since the morning. That’s our one chance to get her out of there, quick and clean!

_Nearing the corner of Baker Street and the busy Park Road ahead, he breaks into a run._

JOHN _(struggling to keep up, breathlessly):_ Hey, wait! What’s become of “keeping a low profile”?

SHERLOCK: No time for that now!

JOHN: Well, at least we know who to look for now - fifteen, tall, long dark hair -  
  
SHERLOCK: - slim but rather plain of face -

JOHN _(surprised):_ How d’you know about the face? Mrs Warren didn’t -

_They’re at the street corner - and so, by happy chance, is a black cab. The light on the roof is on, so without ado, Sherlock pulls the back door open._

SHERLOCK: I’ve told you before that it’s worth listening to her, John! Chantelle Warren has the _figure_ of a model, her mother said. 

JOHN _(puzzled):_ So? 

SHERLOCK _(already half inside the cab, leaning back out):_ If she had the face to go with it, she’d _be_ one!

_And with that, he disappears from view into the depths of the cab. John, shaking his head, follows him in, and the cab races off, heading north towards West Hendon._


	9. Chapter 9

_**Outside No. 14 Orme Street in West Hendon.** _ _The Warren, again conspicuous among its neighbours by its extra floor, looms high above Sherlock and John as they stand on the doorstep of the drab brick building. The street at their backs is, again, quiet and deserted, except for the wind rattling a plastic sheet that covers a portion of the building scaffold on the corner._

_Sherlock’s and John’s eyes are fixed on the front door of the house. It’s slightly ajar._

JOHN _(in a low voice):_ We’re too late.

SHERLOCK _(ominously):_ That remains to be seen.

_He puts his hand on the door as if to push it open, then pauses and gives John an expectant look._

JOHN: Oh. Yeah.

_He looks around furtively, then digs his hand under his jacket and produces his gun from its hiding place in his waistband. The small click as the safety comes off seems overloud in the silence._

 

* * *

 

 _ **No. 14 Orme Street. The attic bedroom, dimly lit by the single dormer window in the sloping roof.** _ _It’s a small room, very simply furnished, with a single unmade bed in the corner and a little desk and chair next to it. Against the other wall is a chest of drawers with an electric kettle on a small tray on top of it. Beyond, a door standing half open reveals the en suite bathroom. The place is silent and empty, and looks almost uninhabited. Except for the obviously slept-in bed, it’s completely bare of any ornaments or personal belongings. On the dusty window pane, the row of dancing men that Shinwell Johnson photographed for Sherlock only hours before his death seem to be still performing their grotesque little dance routine._

 _But nothing actually moves in the room, until the main door is pushed open slowly and stealthily. John appears, edging around the door frame with his gun at the ready in both hands. His eyes flit around the room, checking it for intruders, but there’s clearly no-one there. Sherlock, equally silently, follows him in. Tip-toeing across to the bathroom, John ascertains that that space is deserted, too. Then he exhales audibly, secures the safety and lets his gun sink down,_ _the tension visibly ebbing out of him._

JOHN _(resigned):_ They’re gone. They’ve taken her.

SHERLOCK: Looks like it.

JOHN _(looking around the spartan but orderly room):_ Doesn’t look like a struggle though.

SHERLOCK: No.

_He walks to the desk and picks up an overflowing waste-paper basket from under it. He places it on the seat of the chair and starts picking pieces of rubbish out of it, running a commentary as he examines each and then drops them back in._

SHERLOCK: Banana peels – _(He holds one up to the light and sniffs it.)_ – the freshest is two days old. Lots of empty pot noodle cups - _(He fishes one of them out and tilts it so the inner side catches the light.)_ – those ran out three days ago. Chocolate bar wrappers – _(He turns one inside out for a look at the silvery inside.)_ – licked clean.

JOHN _(with a grimace):_ She must have been so hungry.  
  
SHERLOCK: Mmh. Hardly in a state to offer much resistance.

_He digs a little deeper into the bin. John, meanwhile, pockets his gun, walks over to the chest of drawers and opens one after the other._

JOHN _(over his shoulder):_ No spare clothes in here. None at all.

SHERLOCK : Of course not.

_When John turns back towards him, Sherlock is holding up a pair of crumpled skin-coloured women’s tights from the bin. The soles of their feet are torn to shreds, as if someone has been walking in them over rough ground._

SHERLOCK: She escaped with nothing but what she wore. And not even shoes.

_John shakes his head, then heads into the bathroom to continue his examination, while Sherlock turns his attention back to the bin. The next object he retrieves from it is a squashed white plastic container of the kind that usually holds household chemicals. Sticking to it are a few pieces of eggshells and a scrap of curling plastic foil that looks like part of a label of an ordinary plastic water bottle, with a discounter’s brand name still readable on it._

_John, stepping back out of the bathroom a moment later, finds his friend standing hunched over the desk, examining something on its bare surface with his pocket magnifier, the contents of the bin apparently exhausted._

JOHN _(approaching curiously):_ What’ve you got there?

_Some black stains mar the surface of the desk, the largest the size of small coins. Sherlock straightens up so John can take a closer look. John runs a finger across them and frowns at the powdery black residue that sticks to its tip._

SHERLOCK: Carbonised wood.

JOHN: Burns?

SHERLOCK _(with a mildly mocking sigh):_ To those uninitiated to the marvellous world of scientific accuracy, yes.

_John rolls his eyes._

JOHN: But not barbecue charcoal this time?

SHERLOCK: Certainly not. You got anything?

JOHN: Only this.

_He holds up a lipstick, pulls the cap off and twists it out of its casing. What little remains of the bright red colour inside is badly out of shape and smudged with dirt._

JOHN: Her lifeline.

_Sherlock takes the open lipstick from John and walks across to the window. John follows him. While Sherlock compares the lipstick to the substance the dancing men are written in, John gazes out at the cheerless sight of Shinwell Johnson’s dreary yard._

JOHN _(sadly):_ I still don’t want to imagine how -

_Sherlock raises his head to peer out over the dancing men, too, and his eyes immediately fix on something down in the backyard._

SHERLOCK _(not listening):_ John?

JOHN: Mmh?

SHERLOCK: Are you absolutely sure that Rosie is safe and well with Stella and Ted right now?

_John glances at his friend with a questioning frown._

JOHN: What? Yeah, Stella sent a picture with Rosie in their garden, not an hour ago. _(He takes out his phone and scrolls through his messages.)_ Hang on -

SHERLOCK _(immediately):_ Delete it.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK _(tensely, and speaking very fast now):_ Delete it. All their messages. And their contact details, too.

_He starts moving quickly away from the window._

JOHN _(alarmed):_ Why?

SHERLOCK: Because there’s a distinct possibility that your phone’s going to fall into the wrong hands in the next couple of minutes, and I’d rather your daughter weren’t that easy to find.

_He turns as if to head out of the door, but then he freezes. There’s a noise from downstairs - a scraping sound, as if the front door is being carefully pushed open again, then a number of footsteps stealthily entering the building and spreading out on the ground floor._

_The two friends exchange a look. A series of emotions passes across John’s face - initial bewilderment, then a touch of genuine panic, but quickly replaced with grim determination, his jaw setting in a hard line. He soundlessly takes his gun out again. But Sherlock shakes his head._

JOHN _(mouthing the words almost inaudibly):_ What then?

SHERLOCK _(in a low hiss):_ The skylight. Go!

_And he springs into action, rushing out of the room with no more regard for stealth and silence, only for speed. John follows on his heels, pocketing his gun as he runs. On the landing outside the attic bedroom, it’s the work of a moment to loosen the fastening of the skylight at the top of the stairs. It opens outwards with a bang, and the next moment, Sherlock is already up and through it. He reaches back down with his hand to pull his shorter friend up just as downstairs, a triumphant cry signals that their presence has been detected by the intruders. Their footsteps come trampling up the stairs._

 

* * *

 

 _ **On the rooftops of Orme Street,** _ _Sherlock and John are clambering away from the open skylight of No. 14 on their hands and feet, like two large insects clinging to the side of a rock, struggling for purchase on the steeply sloping roof. The wind has risen, and whips their hair and their coats about them, making it even harder to keep their balance. Sherlock, in the lead, is the first to reach the edge where No. 14 adjoins the much lower neighbouring house. Without even looking where exactly he’ll land, he immediately drops over the edge, out of sight. A second or two later, John follows, narrowly avoiding falling directly onto another skylight. He’s still trying to get his breath back while Sherlock is already pulling him onwards._

JOHN _(panting):_ They’ll pick us off like pigeons! Let’s get on the other side of the ridge!

SHERLOCK _(scrambling on):_ No! They’ve got someone in the backyard, too!

JOHN: How d’you know?

SHERLOCK _(exasperated):_ Chickens don’t start panicking for no reason!

_John responds merely with a muttered profanity._

_Clinging to chimneys, television aerials and satellite dishes as best as they can, the two friends quickly make their way sideways along the roofs of the terrace. It’s easier going now, with the roofs less steep and the prospect of a fall from this lower height slightly less daunting. The street corner is still three houses away - then two - and then the scaffolding on the corner property comes into view. It goes all around the house, and the tops of its poles just peak over the eaves. Sherlock jerks his head at them, and John understands at once._

_Entering the roof area of the last but one house in the terrace, Sherlock lets go of his current handhold and slithers down the tiles in a diagonal line. He ends up not quite at the top corner of the scaffold he was aiming for, but still close enough to it that he manages to grab a safe hold and swing inwards just before going over the edge._

_John, following, crawls a little further along the roof tiles for a better trajectory, closes his eyes for a second, then consigns himself to the force of gravity and lets go, too._

_Using the top section of the scaffold as a firemen’s pole, the two friends one after the other slide down to the next level. They run along the - thankfully horizontal - planks and turn the corner, out of sight from Orme Street. There’s an opening in the planks here, giving access to the bottom level of the scaffold. They let themselves down the iron ladder and then run on to the next one, just one level up from the street now, mere feet away from the safety that the maze of back alleys and sheds and garages in this area promises._

_But on very last ladder down, John in his haste slips. His shoe catches against the narrow metal rung, throwing him off balance. His body swings sideways, and his left shoulder bangs hard into a nearby protruding metal post. John lets out a yell of pain and loses his grip. He drops the last three feet or so to the uneven ground at the foot of the scaffold and lands on his knees, clutching his shoulder, his face contorted in a grimace of pain. Sherlock, who has jumped down nimbly next to him, takes him by his good arm to pull him to his feet._

SHERLOCK _(urgently):_ Come _on,_ John!

JOHN _(through gritted teeth):_ You run!

_But too late. They’ve lost vital seconds, and now there are both loud warning shouts from the roof above them and footsteps approaching from around the street corner behind them. They come rapidly closer, several men running flat out. Then heavy boots scrabble to a halt as their pursuers turn the corner and take a stand to confront the two friends. Again, there’s the menacing sound of catches on guns being released, but none of them John’s this time._

_In the charged silence that follows, Sherlock and John on the ground, who is still gasping for breath and clearly not ready for either fight or flight, exchange a look. John shakes his head in despair, but Sherlock only gives him a small, resigned smile._

_Then, slowly and deliberately, he straightens up, raises his hands in surrender, and turns to face their opponents._

 


	10. Chapter 10

_**On the corner of Orme Street in West Hendon, on the pavement in front of the scaffolded house,** _ _a rather absurd scene is unfolding. Half a dozen officers from one of the Metropolitan Police’s Armed Response teams in full black combat gear - bullet-proof vests, sturdy boots and armed to the teeth - have formed a circle around Sherlock and John. John is back on his feet, massaging his hurting shoulder and looking resigned, while Sherlock is engaged in a furious shouting match with the leader of the team. Rather ludicrously, Sherlock still has his hands up. And just as ludicrously, the officer in charge – a bull of a man, half a head shorter than Sherlock but twice his width - has his submachine gun still trained on him. But the nature of their conversation makes it clear that they’ve in fact moved long past that stage._

TEAM LEADER _(in a very loud, highly annoyed voice):_ \- really got better things to do than run after some idiotic self-appointed vigilantes who think they can -

SHERLOCK _(equally loudly, and equally furiously):_ \- really not surprised, with an _abysmal_ response time like that! Did you _walk_ all the way from headquarters, or did you stop for fish and chips on the way?

_The officer in charge bristles at the insult. The other team members, however, have started to see the entertainment value of the situation. They abandon their menacing stances, un-cock their guns and sling them over their shoulders. Some are apparently finding it hard to suppress a grin, and one is even fiddling with his phone as if to record the incident for posterity. While Sherlock and the team leader continue to take their respective frustration out on each other, John turns to address the officer closest to him - a young South Asian man._

JOHN _(in an undertone):_ Who did call you in, then?

OFFICER _(in an equally low voice):_ Elderly lady in the house opposite. Something about a bunch of men she’d never seen before leaving No. 14 with a teenage girl in tow. What with that report of another girl here in the area dragged into a car earlier today, we figured -

_The man breaks off as his team leader’s voice rises above his own in a fresh bout of fury._

TEAM LEADER _(still shouting at Sherlock):_ \- could have you arrested for obstruction at the _very_ least, and trust me, I’m _this_ far away from -

SHERLOCK _(snidely):_ From what, first place in a snail racing competition?

_John, clearly worried that Sherlock may eventually end up provoking his heavily armed opponent into a non-verbal form of retaliation, is about to reach out and put a calming hand on his friend’s arm. But before he can do so, the young officer beside him steps forward to address his superior. His hand is at his earpiece, and his brow is furrowed in concentration as he listens to the message he’s receiving._

OFFICER _(to the team leader, urgently):_ Sir, we’ve got a red alert.

_All around them, portable radios are beginning to crackle. The team leader finally lowers his gun._

TEAM LEADER _(to his officer):_ What is it?

OFFICER: Incident in one of the clubs in Carlton House Terrace involving – _(His eyes grow wide in disbelief as he listens on, and he finishes in an almost questioning tone.)_ \- a radioactive substance?

TEAM LEADER _(with a groan):_ Jesus. How I hate those training exercises.

 

* * *

 

 _**Moments later,** _ _two Armed Response Vehicles, bearing the distinctive neon red and yellow markings of their kind, have pulled up at the corner of Orme Street, and in an atmosphere of rapid but ordered activity, the officers are stowing their weapons and getting in, ready to set off on their next assignment._

_In one of the cars, the team leader is already in the passenger seat, buckling on his seatbelt. While the driver starts the engine, Sherlock and John suddenly pile into the back seat behind them._

TEAM LEADER _(turning around in surprise):_ What the - ? _(Furiously)_ Get out of the car!

SHERLOCK: Just drop us off at Rathbone Place, sergeant. It’s on your way.

TEAM LEADER: And why the hell would we do that?

_Just then, the radio on the dashboard crackles again, and snatches of a message can be heard, clipped and urgent._

RADIO OPERATOR’S VOICE: … repeat, all units. Full NBC suits required. Repeat, full protective suits …

SHERLOCK _(with a nod at the radio, tersely):_ Because that is _not_ a training exercise.

 

* * *

 

 _**In the back of the police car, speeding down the A5 back towards the city centre** _ _in the full glory of blue lights and sirens, John’s eyes are on his phone. He’s quickly tapping his way through a news feed._

JOHN: Twitter’s going mad. Some pics, here: Police cordons, ambulances, officials in white coveralls wielding Geiger counters – like a bad action movie. _(He baulks at what he sees on the screen, then enlarges the picture. His eyes grow wide.)_ Jesus, Sherlock! That’s right outside the Dio -

_He looks across at his friend. Sherlock is sitting almost frighteningly still, staring into nothingness, but it’s the stillness of a coiled spring. His face is unnaturally pale, and his lips are a thin, taut line._

SHERLOCK _(tonelessly):_ Of course. Mycroft’s club.

JOHN _(aghast):_ You - you mean they’ve - they’ve – _(Puzzled)_ But you said they’d be targeting Ro-

SHERLOCK _(sharply):_ I know! _(He comes to life again in a sudden outburst of fury and punches his thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. John winces.)_ I was _wrong!_ And now they've got _him!_

_John immediately reverts to a deliberately sensible, soothing tone._

JOHN: Now, now, wait a minute. We don’t even know yet whether they really got through to him. I mean, it’s -

_He breaks off, glancing uneasily at the two police officers in the front of the car. But their attention is – in the case of the driver – on the road and – in the case of the team leader in the passenger seat – on his radio._

JOHN _(lowering his voice):_ \- it’s _Mycroft!_ He’s got the highest security status there is, how could they even get near his -

_Sherlock runs his hands into his hair and tugs at it in his distress._

SHERLOCK: It was _me_ , John! _I_ talked him into it, _I_ dragged him out there – _(Bitterly)_ _I_ told him he’d be safe in the middle of a crowd!

JOHN _(with a frown):_ What the hell are you talking about?

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ The gym bottles! It must have been in one of the gym bottles!

_He squeezes his eyes shut, as if in a desperate attempt to contain his agitation._

JOHN _(completely confused now):_ What gym bottles?

_When there’s no response from Sherlock, he starts casting around for further reassurances._

JOHN: You know – polonium occurs naturally, too, the human body can deal with a low dose…

_Sherlock resurfaces for a moment, but only to snap rather savagely at his friend._

SHERLOCK: John, I appreciate the kind intention behind your painfully transparent calculated optimism, but I can’t make a habit of painting targets on people’s backs! He’s the second in two days!

JOHN _(protesting):_ Don’t say that now. We totally stumbled into this, remember? We couldn’t possibly know -

_Sherlock cuts John off with a wordless snarl. But then he suddenly lets go of his hair. His head jerks up, and his eyes now have that stare into the middle distance to them that usually heralds an epiphany of some sort._

SHERLOCK _(with a frown):_ But if it was in one of the gym bottles, why did it take so long for the symptoms to manifest themselves? That was two full days ago. And would they really leave it to chance which bottle each of us would pick? They were identical. _(He shakes his head, and his fingers start tapping a jerky tattoo on his knee.)_ I’m missing something here.

_John bites his lip, undecided whether to keep offering words of comfort, or whether to resign himself to the fact that they’ll fall on deaf ears. But when there seem to be no more insights forthcoming, he speaks up again._

JOHN: So – we’re going where exactly now?   
  
SHERLOCK _(curtly):_ Rathbone Place.

JOHN _(patiently prompting):_ And that is - ?   
  
SHERLOCK: The London dependency of the Atomic Weapons Establishment. _(He swallows.)_ If anyone can still help him now, it’s them.

_He turns his head away to look out of the car window, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to be sick._


	11. Chapter 11

_**Rathbone Place** _ _– the London seat of the Atomic Weapons Establishment, a nuclear research institution run by the Ministry of Defence_ _ **.** _ _On the outside, the place is an impressive 19_ _th_ _century building, set within its own grounds and with a sweeping driveway leading up to the front doors. But inside, there's little left of the building's outer grandeur._ _ **A long hallway on its second floor** _ _bears witness to a sweeping victory of pragmatism over aesthetics, and maybe also to the limits of public funding, being dominated by bright light, lino floors and high archways partially bricked up to fit in modern fire doors._

_The corridor is lined on both sides with heavy white doors, each with a sign sporting the black-on-yellow trefoil symbol to warn against ionising radiation next to it. Some of the doors have windows in them that reveal views of laboratories or engineering rooms, with white-coated figures moving back and forth inside._

_But the three persons traversing this corridor right now have no attention to spare for their surroundings. Sherlock, in front, is positively storming down the hallway, eyes fixed on the far end, silent and grim. John and Mycroft’s PA Anthea are hurrying after him, side by side, Anthea sailing along on precariously high stiletto heels. As a tribute to the seriousness of the situation, her phone is nowhere to be seen, and her attention is entirely on her two companions. But she still appears as unflappable and competent as ever. John is listening to her report while they walk, their footsteps echoing in the large empty space. Sherlock is either too far ahead to hear their words, or he's shutting them out deliberately. Either way, John and Anthea keep their voices down to ensure his privacy._

ANTHEA _(to John):_ There’s a protocol for these kinds of incidents now, of course, after Litvinenko, and we’re following it religiously. We’ve sealed off the Prime Minister’s aircraft, we’ve arrested the flight attendant, and we’ve confiscated the tea set.

JOHN _(bewildered):_ Sorry, what aircraft? And what tea set?

ANTHEA: Mr Holmes flew back from Brussels in the Prime Minister’s company earlier today. That’s when the attack is assumed to have taken place.

JOHN _(nodding at Sherlock’s back):_ He said something about a gym bottle.

ANTHEA: Oh, no. Tea is the usual beverage of choice to hide such substances in. They would be far more conspicuous in water or isotonic drinks. At any rate, the Diogenes Club, where Mr Holmes suffered his collapse, has been evacuated, too, as a precaution. That was fun, to get that across to the members in total silence. _(For a moment, a fleeting smile seems to pass across her face. But when John glances up at her in surprise, her former, neutral expression is already back in place.)_ To the public, we’re selling the investigation currently going on there as an anti-terrorist training exercise. But of course the Prime Minister and the heads of the security services have been informed. There’s a Cabinet Office Briefing Room meeting scheduled for 6 p. m..

_John nods. Ahead of them, Sherlock has reached the next fire door. He pushes it open and marches through without looking back. John hurries to catch the door before it swings back into his and Anthea's faces._

JOHN _(to Anthea, as they continue walking):_ Seriously though, does all this even make sense? Would the Red Circle really be crazy enough to target _Mycroft?_ How's that gonna look? _(In a tone of deep disquiet)_ Or are you telling me that they actually had the Kremlin’s backing?

ANTHEA _(in a carefully neutral tone):_ Well, the Kremlin’s response to all this will be very interesting indeed. We're awaiting it eagerly.

_Still ahead of them, Sherlock has reached the very last door in the corridor. This one has no sign warning against radiation on it, but it’s secured by a card reader and key pad. Sherlock stands impatiently tapping his foot, hands buried so deep in the pockets of his coat that it looks as if he’s restraining himself from physically assaulting the door to get through faster._

_John and Anthea catch up with him. She takes a key card from the pocket of her suit jacket, swipes it and keys in the access code. They walk into_ _**a large laboratory turned into an impromptu situation room.** _ _Laptops have been set up on hastily cleared laboratory benches, and half a dozen men in well-fitting dark suits are installed on stools in front of them. One, at a desk in the corner, has a head-set on and talks into it in a low voice, presumably coordinating the police and the radiation experts on the ground at the Diogenes Club and at the airfield where the Prime Minister and Mycroft landed earlier in the day. Another seems to be monitoring the same operations on his computer, maps and blueprints visible on his screen. A third is talking into his phone._

_None of the men even so much as glance up as Sherlock, John and Anthea cross the room and advance towards another door at its far end. Two more men are standing on either side of it, their hands linked in front of them, the expressions on their faces carefully impassive, and their function immediately obvious even though they're not visibly armed. John glances at them with both approval and concern. The two sentinels wordlessly stand aside to let the three visitors pass into the inner sanctum, John and Anthea again letting Sherlock take the lead._

_This new door opens into what looks like_ _**a fully equipped hospital room,** _ _furnished with an ordinary height-adjustable bed, complete with bedside table and visitor’s chair, and with a panel of sockets and outlets for oxygen running along the wall behind the bed. The head of the bed has been raised for the patient in it to be in clear view from the door - and the state of the patient in the bed makes Sherlock freeze on the threshold. John steps up to his side, and his eyes, too, bulge with shock at the sight._

_On the bed, Mycroft Holmes, as always immaculately dressed in one of his three-piece suits, is reclining on top of the crisp white covers in an attitude of easy, almost nonchalant relaxation._

_He has crossed his ankles comfortably, and a copy of today’s The Times is open on his lap, as if he’s just been interrupted reading it. His face is a healthy, rosy colour, and his eyes are bright and sharp as ever. There’s no mark of sickness or suffering on him, no indication whatsoever that he’s anything but blooming with health. In fact, he looks extraordinarily pleased with himself._

_Sherlock stands utterly dumbstruck at the unexpected sight, his lips silently opening and then closing again with almost comical incredulity._

MYCROFT _(jovially):_ Speechless, brother dear? Well, let me savour that for a moment. It’s a rare enough occurrence. _(He folds up his newspaper with exaggerated precision and puts it aside on the bedside table.)_ Although I do find that I don’t take too kindly to enforced inactivity. I think I’ve indulged you long enough now. You've got a case to wrap up. Kindly see it through as quickly as you can, I'd like to get back to my office.

_Sherlock abruptly jerks out of his trance. With a few long strides, he's by his brother's bedside. None too gently, he runs his fingers through Mycroft’s thinning hair and then stares at his hand, as if he expected whole tufts of it to come away. Mycroft tuts at him disapprovingly and smooths his hair back down._

MYCROFT: Not falling out faster than usual these days, I assure you.

_John, still in the doorway, lets out a sudden bark of laughter as the truth sinks in._

JOHN: He _faked_ it _,_ Sherlock! Jesus Christ on a bike, he faked the whole thing! He’s completely fine!

_He turns to Anthea, as if to invite her to share in his relief - and then abruptly realises that she's not surprised in the least. There‘s even a glint of mischief in her eyes. John, seeing it, puffs up his cheeks, torn between disapproval and admiration._

_Meanwhile, Sherlock is still standing by his brother‘s bed, slowly shaking his head. His face is fast losing its greyish pallor, now turning to the deep shade of red that only comes with extreme mortification. And then his expression reverts to cold fury._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft, grinding the words out through clenched teeth):_ I thought you were _dying._

MYCROFT _(in a mildly mocking tone):_ Oh, gross exaggeration. Apart from a friendly piece of advice from this place’s excellent physicians to watch my cholesterol levels, I’m as fit as the proverbial fiddle.

SHERLOCK _(still with barely contained anger):_ You _tricked_ me!

MYCROFT _(smoothly):_ Collateral damage, brother dear. You know who I‘m really tricking. I’m removing the last obstacle that still stands in the way of yet another triumph of Good over Evil to add to Doctor Watson’s collection. I’d have expected gratitude, not reproaches.

JOHN: Seriously, though - the plane, the tea, the collapse at the club -

SHERLOCK _(grudgingly):_ Lady Bracknell, John. She really was that good.

MYCROFT ( _in a mock-modest tone):_ Too much honour, little brother. _(Turning to Anthea)_ Though I hear the young man who played the flight attendant put on a particularly good show of offended innocence upon his arrest, too. Remind me to commend him.

JOHN _(to Mycroft):_ You didn’t really go and spill polonium on the Prime Minister’s plane, did you?

MYCROFT _(with a thin lipped smile):_ You mean the temptation must have been strong? But no, John, of course not. I’m sure that by the time we get to the stage of a parliamentary enquiry, the whole affair will clear itself up as being the unfortunate concurrence of an ordinary stomach bug and faulty dosimeters.

JOHN: But right now you‘ve got the whole world thinking -

MYCROFT _(placidly):_ \- that I’m in quarantine, being treated by our country’s most distinguished specialists for acute radiation syndrome? Oh yes. Although I’m pleased to say I’m not despaired of as yet. The radiation dose that’s currently being measured aboard the Prime Minister’s aircraft is fortunately below the levels that are usually considered inescapably lethal, and I barely sipped at my tea. There’s definitely the prospect of a full recovery. _(He smiles a rather wolfish smile, very like one of Sherlock’s own most frightening mock-friendly expressions.)_ But given the type of poison, the location of the attack, and my own position within our government, which remains unknown to the general public but is necessarily well-established in international security circles, this will of course appear to be a direct attack on the United Kingdom’s security interests. A political affront of the highest order, attributable to no other country than the one that has used polonium for a political assassination before, and so enormous in scale and perfidy that it can hardly have originated anywhere else but at the very top of their chain of command. The gentleman in question will be falling over his feet to distance himself from the suspected perpetrators as decisively as possible, even if they’re - broadly speaking - old comrades of his, too. _(With an arch look at his brother.)_ I dare say he‘ll hardly find the happiness or misery of a handful of teenage girls worth upsetting the fragile political equilibrium between his own country and his western neighbours either. He may be a ruthless man, but he won’t tolerate anyone on his payroll, active or retired, to meddle in his country‘s international relations merely for their own personal gratification.

JOHN _(quietly):_ Jesus. I just hope you know what you‘re doing.

MYCROFT: I'm expecting the result any minute.

_As if on cue, the phone in Anthea‘s pocket rings. With an apologetic smile, she turns to leave the room, taking the call as she pulls the door closed behind her. Mycroft turns to address Sherlock again._

MYCROFT: Don‘t be so offended, little brother. _Someone_ had to bring that dratted little case of yours to a head, before it could do anyone any real harm. I hope you’ll remember to thank the concerned citizen who alerted me to that danger last night - just in time to stage today’s little comedy. 

_John’s eyebrows go up at Mycroft’s choice of words. Sherlock snorts sarcastically._

SHERLOCK: You really have a rubbish sense of humour, Mycroft.

MYCROFT: Surely you realise that you have only yourself to blame if I’ve given you a moment of panic. You’ve let your emotions blind you, yet again, to what cool reason should have told you right from the beginning.

_Sherlock bites his lip, but doesn‘t reply._

JOHN _(to Mycroft, with a frown):_ What do you mean?

MYCROFT _(to John):_ I mean that it was very obliging of Madame Grunerova, back in the Russian church, to word her death threats ambiguously enough for them to be read as directed at me rather than at my brother. Otherwise today’s deception would hardly have a chance of passing for reality. But I hope you’re both aware by now that she was never, never referring to your daughter, John. _(He glances at Sherlock disapprovingly.)_ Because however generously my brother may define the term ‘family’ these days, with the best will in the world Rosamund Watson is _not_ his own flesh and blood.

_John closes his eyes at this, overwhelmed for a moment by the conflicting emotions of relief at his daughter being safe, and embarrassment at not seeing the contradiction to Mrs Grunerova’s choice of words straight away._

SHERLOCK: But -

MYCROFT _(to Sherlock):_ It's what you wanted to hear, but it's not what Madame meant. She wasn’t talking to you about Rosie. She was talking to me about you. She quite correctly assumed that I’d be listening. _(Addressing John again)_ I checked, of course. But there was absolutely no indication of any of Grunerova’s and Koshkin’s associates and hirelings displaying a heightened interest in your and your daughter’s whereabouts and routines. So I considered that possibility eliminated, and had you and Rosamund reverted to the usual protection level.

JOHN: Well - thank you, I suppose…

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft, in an accusing tone):_ But you never told me I was wrong about Rosie?

MYCROFT: Why should I? You were wrong, but it still produced the required result, so I saw no reason to disabuse you of your error. Thinking that you were saving John’s daughter, you dropped the case just like you were supposed to. And knowing your hopelessly excessive way of showing affection for your friends, I dare say you dropped it much more willingly and thoroughly than you would have done if you’d realised that it was only your own life at stake. _(Mycroft smiles rather wryly.)_ You’ve become very predictable these days, Sherlock.

_There is an awkward silence for a moment. Sherlock's anger seems to have dissipated, and he looks rather crestfallen now - so much so that John looks ready to actually put his arm around him in a gesture of comfort._

SHERLOCK _(to Mycroft, in a low voice):_ I meant to _protect_ you. And I thought I‘d killed you trying.

MYCROFT: The duels that I engage in, Sherlock, are fought with very different weapons and on very different fields than you were imagining. _(His voice is almost gentle now, and he even extends his hand towards his brother in a conciliatory gesture.)_ But don’t be too hard on yourself. I know you were trying to look out for me, but I have a full thirty-nine years’ head start in that particular department after all. That’s a lot to catch up on. But I’m sure you’ll get better with practice. _(He attempts another smile, and this time it comes out genuine.)_ And besides, I really could use the exercise. It’s done wonders for my BMI.

_Sherlock doesn’t quite return the smile, but his tense expression relaxes ever so slightly. While the two brothers are looking at each other earnestly, and John is doing his best to be invisible, clearly embarrassed at witnessing this moment, Anthea saves the day by reappearing on the doorstep. Behind her back, the situation room is now in quite a flurry, with printers whirring and phones ringing insistently._

_All heads turn towards her. When she speaks, she has to make an effort to suppress a triumphant undertone creeping into her voice._

ANTHEA _(to Mycroft):_ We’ve got the Presidential Office on the line, sir. Mr Koshkin’s diplomatic immunity has been rescinded with immediate effect.

_Mycroft swings his legs over the side of the bed and rises to his feet._

MYCROFT: Ah, very good. I trust the appropriate measures have been initiated?

ANTHEA: The ink on his arrest warrant is drying as we speak, and the Sexual Exploitation and Child Abuse Unit at the Metropolitan Police are champing at the bit to execute it. A search warrant for the Kensington School of Dance will be issued presently as well. _(Deadpan)_ And the President himself would like to express his extreme regret at today‘s events, and is hoping to extend his best wishes for a speedy recovery to you personally, if medically advisable.

MYCROFT _(equally straight-faced):_ I‘m afraid it isn‘t just yet, but his kind intention is much appreciated.

ANTHEA: I‘ve already told him as much.

_Sherlock and John have followed this exchange in silence, John torn between being deeply impressed and somewhat creeped-out, Sherlock grimly satisfied. Now Mycroft turns back to them._

MYCROFT _(cheerfully):_ Well, then - better run along, if you want anything to be left for you to do. _(He takes out his pocket watch and raises an eyebrow.)_ You’re cutting it fine, in fact. The boarding gate will close in thirty-five minutes.

JOHN: What -

MYCROFT: Madame Grunerova booked two seats on the 18:15 Aeroflot flight from Heathrow to Moscow‘s Sheremetyevo Airport earlier this afternoon. Since she‘s the legal guardian of the underage girl booked to travel with her, it‘s unlikely that they‘ll have trouble boarding the aircraft and leaving the country unless –

_But he doesn‘t even need to complete the sentence. In a blur of dark coattails, Sherlock is out of the hospital room, and already halfway through the situation room as well, with John - a slightly smaller blur, but equally fast - hard on his heels. The dark-suited men look up from their computers in mild surprise as the two friends race past them. Mycroft, standing in the door of the hospital room with Anthea, looks after them with an indulgent smile on his face._

MYCROFT _(fondly):_ There we go. I knew they‘d love that bit. _(To Anthea)_ May I borrow your phone for a moment? I'm afraid I‘m still too engaged in medical procedures right now to use my own.

_Anthea willingly produces her phone. Mycroft quickly composes a text message on it and sends it off._

Kindly consider the economic ramifications of a complete lockdown on the world's second busiest airport even for a single hour, brother dear. Pray be discreet.

MYCROFT _(returning Anthea’s phone):_ Thank you. Now, have we apologised to my brother‘s landlady for the cat on her doorstep yet?

 

* * *

 

 _**Outside Rathbone Place,** _ _a black saloon car with tinted windows is pulling up in the drive just when the large double doors of the building burst open. Sherlock and John come rushing out, pelt through the porch, down the steps, and pile into the car._

_Moments later, the car is already speeding through the city towards Heathrow Airport._

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a warning for a graphic depiction of injury.

**_Heathrow Airport. In a windowless, darkened CCTV control room_ ,** _deep behind the scenes of the_ _day-long hustle and bustle of the huge international airport, a panel of a dozen or more monitors has been set up. They display the feeds from countless security cameras dispersed throughout the terminal, jumping dizzyingly back and forth every few seconds between different views and angles._

__In front of the panel, two uniformed police officers are sitting at the computers that control the cameras. Behind them, Greg Lestrade stands gazing at the screens with his arms crossed. He’s just about to point at one of them, his lips opening as if to ask a question, when the door into the room bangs open. Greg whirls around. Sherlock and John come striding in, slightly out of breath._ _

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade, testily):_ Hello, concerned citizen. You really couldn’t let me sort this one out myself, could you?

LESTRADE _(drily):_ Welcome to my world.

_Sherlock doesn’t look amused in the least. Lestrade tilts his chin up belligerently._

LESTRADE: Were you really going to argue with a lethal dose of polonium? There’s a reason why I’ve kept your brother’s number all these years, you know.

_Sherlock only snorts and turns to the officers and their camera feeds. John nods at the screens._

JOHN: We’re not too late, are we?

LESTRADE: Just in time. 

_He gestures at one of the screens in the bottom row of the panel. It shows one of the long hallways of the airport terminal, with scores of passengers and the occasional airport staff all walking in the same direction, as if all heading for the same destination._

LESTRADE: They’ll be there any minute now.

JOHN: What’s the plan?

LESTRADE: The warrant for Grunerova’s arrest for complicity in Zima’s and Johnson’s murders came through five minutes ago. We’ve got our people waiting for them at the security check. Nick the lady, take the girl under our wing, be back home in time for dinner.

_He grins confidently, but neither Sherlock nor John seem quite ready yet to share his optimism._

POLICE OFFICER _(to Lestrade):_ They’re here, sir.

_On the same screen that Lestrade indicated a moment ago, two female figures have appeared. Lestrade, Sherlock and John all lean in for a closer look. As the two figures approach the camera, the slightly grainy image reveals them to be Mrs Grunerova, again with her hair up in a tight bun and dressed in an elegant trench coat, and a teenage girl that must be Katia Zima. There is a clear resemblance to the description Mrs Warren gave of her own daughter earlier that day. This girl is tall for her age, too, but almost worryingly thin, and she has done up her long dark hair in a rather careless ponytail. They walk along quite naturally, side by side. They're not speaking, and Grunerova isn’t touching her companion at all either, let alone dragging her along._

JOHN _(to the room at large, surprised):_ She’s coming along just like that?

LESTRADE _(sceptically):_ Drugged?

JOHN _(shaking his head):_ Walking too straight and too fast for heavy sedation.

LESTRADE: Well, God knows what lies they've told her to make her come along voluntarily...

_Katia and Mrs Grunerova are very close to the camera now._

SHERLOCK _(to the officer at the computer):_ Freeze it and zoom in.

_The officer obliges by tapping a couple of keys. In close-up, Katia’s expression is grave and rather tense, but whether from fear or mere fatigue is impossible to tell. Her eyes are the most striking feature in her pale, slightly pointy face - large and almond-shaped, eerily reminiscent of the Russian icons - and there are dark rings under them. But dressed as she is in a nondescript t-shirt and cardigan, black leggings and trainers, with a canvas bag over her shoulder and a plastic water bottle in her hand, she looks just like any other slightly sleep-deprived teenager about to embark on a journey._

_Sherlock, after peering intently at the image for a second or two, straightens up abruptly. When he speaks, there's a sudden note of urgency in his voice._

SHERLOCK _(to Lestrade):_ How long til they get to the security check?

LESTRADE _(with a shrug):_ Sixty seconds? It’s right at the end of that hall.

_Sherlock curses under his breath._

LESTRADE _(frowning):_ What is it? We’ve got it under control, you know, we’ve got four - 

_But Sherlock cuts him off brusquely._

SHERLOCK: You’ve got _nothing_ under control, Lestrade! _(To John)_ Come on, you’ll be needed!

_And without waiting to see who follows, he turns and sprints back out of the room. Lestrade and John exchange an alarmed look, and then without a word run after him._

* * *

 

 ** _Heathrow Airport. The security check area at the end of the hallway_ ** _that Lestrade and his officers were monitoring on camera. Hemmed in by metal barriers on either side, a queue of passengers has formed as they wait for their turn at the x-ray machines and walk-through metal detectors. The atmosphere is one of bustling activity. There‘s the chatter of many voices and several different languages in the air. New passengers keep arriving, and a backlog is quickly building up as something seems to delay the process at the head of the queue. But the crowd is blocking the view, so there’s no telling what exactly is causing the hold-up._

_This is the situation that Sherlock, John and Greg Lestrade encounter when they come bursting onto the scene out of an emergency exit door half-way down the hallway. They quickly look left and right to get their bearings, then start hurrying towards the security check, Sherlock in the lead. But just then, one distinctive voice suddenly rises from the crowd at the head of the queue, shrill with offense._

GRUNEROVA: That’s absolutely ridiculous! On what charge?

 _Sherlock mutters something rather ugly under his breath and speeds up._  

LESTRADE _(calling after him):_ Relax, they’ve got her!

SHERLOCK _(without slowing down):_ I don‘t want her, I want that bottle!

_Heads are beginning to turn at their approach. Sensing that something must be wrong, the waiting passengers flock together more closely as the three men come running straight at them. A disquieted murmur rises from their ranks. Parents protectively grab their children’s hands. The answer from the officials that must already have accosted Mrs Grunerova and Katia, discreetly low-voiced, is lost in the commotion._

_Katia Zima‘s reaction to hearing the charge laid against Mrs Grunerova, however, follows only a moment later, and it makes the heavens ring. A strangled cry bursts from the still unseen girl‘s lips, high-pitched, wordless and so full of both rage and pain that it tugs at the heartstrings of everyone who hears it. And then there‘s a whole torrent of words pouring out, but not English, and the words are tumbling over each other unintelligibly anyway in the poor girl‘s frenzy._

JOHN _(calling across to Lestrade):_ Christ, she didn’t know about Andrei!

 _Lestrade nods grimly. Meanwhile Sherlock, still ahead of them, quickly scans the closely packed mass of humanity for a gap that isn’t there, then veers away to the left, runs at the metal barrier that closes off the security check area, and vaults right over it. A group of security staff and police officers come into his sight, gathered in the open space in front of the walk-through detectors. But their broad uniformed backs are still blocking the two women in their midst from view._

_Sherlock reaches the officers, recklessly shoulders his way into their circle, and is saved from being tackled to the ground and arrested for trespass himself only when Lestrade and John arrive seconds later, and Lestrade indicates to the surrounding officers with a nod that their presence is authorised._

_Mrs Grunerova, with her lip disdainfully curled, is fronting the officer in charge of the arrest, who is holding a document - presumably the arrest warrant - in his hand. A few feet away from them, Katia Zima, very red in the face, is being restrained by another officer from hurling herself bodily at Grunerova. She’s still shouting in Russian at the top of her lungs. Her shoulder bag lies on the floor, carelessly dropped in the jumble, but she’s still convulsively clutching her water bottle. Mrs Grunerova coolly ignores the abuse that Katia appears to be yelling at her._

GRUNEROVA _(to the officer in charge, dismissively):_ Don’t mind her. She’s just a stupid little child.

 _At this, the raging girl bares her teeth in a grimace of pure hatred - and with an almighty wrench jerks out of her minder‘s restraining hands. The man tries to catch her again, but she’s too quick. At Sherlock’s side, John, too, makes an instinctive forward move to intercept her, but she has already lunged herself straight at Mrs Grunerova. The officer in charge steps forward as if to place himself between the two opponents - but then he just as quickly retreats again, bellowing a warning, his arm thrown up protectively in front of his face. In the bright neon light illuminating the hall, a cloud of droplets glitters in the air for a moment as a colourless liquid comes shooting up from between Katia Zima’s hands - straight into Grunerova’s astonished face._

_There’s another scream, and this one even more terrifying than the first. This one is not a shout, not a yell, but a barely human, blood-curdling howl of agony that goes on and on and never seems to end. The crowd shrinks back in horror as Mrs Grunerova, her hands clapped to her face, stumbles blindly backwards, hits her head hard against one of the x-ray machines and then collapses onto the floor, rolling and writhing and still screaming fit to rend her throat._

_For a moment, everyone seems frozen in shock at what has just happened. But then just as quickly, everyone instantly jolts back into action._

_Lestrade and John are the first to drop down by the injured woman’s side. Lestrade tries to keep her still with his hands on her shoulders, swearing loudly as her convulsions threaten to rub the noxious substance drenching her face off onto his own skin, while John, with no regard for his own safety, pries her hands off her face to assess the damage._

_At the same time, several of the uniformed officers close in on Katia Zima, but it's Sherlock who reaches her first. A vice-like grip around her elbow makes her cry out and drop the plastic bottle she’s still holding. As it hits the ground, crumpled and almost empty now, the remainder of the liquid in it spatters the rubber flooring, instantly corroding it wherever it hits._

_Sherlock pulls Katia away from the contamination, but she fights him furiously, screaming and punching every part of him that she can reach. The skin on her hands is glistening with the spill from the bottle, and is quickly turning a sickly, blotchy red. Sherlock grasps her wrists to keep her from doing even more damage to the already badly marred skin. He draws in a sharp breath as his own fingers make contact with the substance, but he doesn’t let go._

_From only a few steps away, Grunerova’s own deafening screams of pain are still echoing around the hall. John raises his voice to carry above the pandemonium._

JOHN: Water! We need water, quickly!

_His patient is still thrashing around in mindless agony, pawing wildly at Lestrade’s supporting arms. The first officer already comes running back from the direction of a walled-off office, carrying a full bucket in one hand and a repurposed glass jar from a coffee machine in the other. But he almost drops both in shock at the sight of Grunerova’s face. The caustic has eaten into it everywhere, dripping from her ears and chin. Her dark, formerly sharp features look like a painting over which the artist has passed a wet and foul sponge - blurred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible. Her mouth is a gaping, jagged hole, and both of her eyes are already white and glazed, like those of a dead fish._

_More officers are running for water now, providing a steady supply with the help of any container they can lay their hands on. While John douses Grunerova’s face again and again in the effort to rinse off the noxious substance or at least dilute it, her cries slowly subside into hoarse, tortured gasps._

_By the time the security staff have started organising the horrified onlookers back into a semblance of order, closing the scene off with movable barriers and diverting the crowd into a lane further away from it, the first team of the airport's resident paramedics have arrived as well. They lose no time getting an IV line for pain relief going, and after exchanging of a few curt words with John, they take over his patient._

_John, looking more relieved than he'd probably care to admit, leaves them to it and clambers back to his feet. He looks around for his friend, and eventually spots both Sherlock and Katia. They're sitting on the floor a few feet away, Sherlock with his back propped against the side of an x-ray machine, Katia huddled in his arms, his coat enveloping her like dark wings on either side. The girl seems to have collapsed where she stood. She's no longer shouting, just sobbing quietly now, her rage subsided into pure exhaustion. Sherlock is still holding her wrists, but loosely now, only to protect her damaged hands from the pain of contact, no longer by way of restraint._

_As John approaches the pair, Sherlock raises his head. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, neither of them speaks, as if in silent accord that there's really nothing to be said. But then Sherlock does raise a tired eyebrow._

SHERLOCK: Well?

 _Katia, hearing the question, turns her tear-stained face towards John just in time to see him shake his head in resignation._ _A violent shiver runs over her, but she grits her teeth against it and mutters a few words to Sherlock in Russian, low but fierce._

JOHN _(to Sherlock):_ What's she saying?

_Sherlock exchanges a look with Katia, as if silently asking her permission to repeat her words. She meets his eyes defiantly, as if daring him not to. Sherlock hesitates, but only for a moment._

SHERLOCK _(to John, quietly):_ She says Madame liked to watch them with the men. Now she'll never watch anyone ever again.


	13. Chapter 13

_**221B Baker Street. The sitting room.** _ _It’s the day after, Sunday, early afternoon. It’s a grey day outside, but inside, there’s warmth and light. As usual, the place is comfortably cluttered, and looks just the same as before. Only the blackboard with the dancing men sample has disappeared from the mantelpiece._

_A fire is going in the grate. At a careful distance from it, Rosie Watson sits in the middle of the faded Persian rug. A colourful cardboard box is open in front of her, and she’s busy retrieving a brand new collection of toy cookware from it with her chubby little hands - metal pots with lids, pans, a colander, a teakettle, miniature plastic cutlery, even a cake pan. She raises each item to her mouth, briefly examining the texture of it with her lips and tongue, before passing it on to her father. John, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the box, receives each new item earnestly, names it and then arranges it neatly on an imaginary kitchen worktop, ready for use. He has a few patches of plaster on the fingers of both hands, but they hardly hamper his movements._

_Over his shoulder, the view of the real kitchen of No. 221B reveals that the two visitors have been here for some time. The folding high chair is again set up at the kitchen table, and there are the remains of lunch on it - glasses, used plates, empty takeaway boxes. Near the sliding doors that separate the kitchen from the sitting room, John has deposited Rosie’s car seat, the changing bag and a large overnight bag.  
_

_The rustling of the wrapping paper and the metallic clatter of the toy kitchen set-up must have masked the sound of any footsteps on the stairs, so John looks up in surprise when the door opens. In the doorway stands Sherlock, wrapped in his coat, his hair a little windblown and his cheeks slightly flushed from the winter cold._

_He and John look at each other for a moment, unsmiling, and neither says a word until Rosie breaks the spell. She tries to scramble to her feet, sits down again heavily as her knees buckle, then reverts to crawling towards her godfather on all fours. Sherlock squats down to greet her._

SHERLOCK _(a little wearily, but with the ghost of a smile now):_ ‘Lo, Rosie. Had a good time at Stella and Ted’s?

_Grasping the fabric of his trousers, Rosie manages to pull herself upright. Sherlock holds out his hands, offering her something more solid to hold on to._

_His hands, too, are bandaged, and more extensively than John’s. White pads of gauze cover both his palms, and four out of five fingers on each hand are patched, too. Rosie, distracted by the unusual sight, immediately starts fingering the bandages with interest. Sherlock gently detaches her questing hand, lifts her up gingerly and puts her back to sit among the toy kitchenware so he can take off his coat and scarf. Rosie picks up the wrapping paper and crinkles it happily._

SHERLOCK _(to John, over his shoulder as he hangs his coat on the back of the door):_ You’re back early.

JOHN _(a little defensively):_ Yeah, I - I felt I should be - _we_ should be - well, here. I don’t know, I  - _(Lamely)_ Never mind. I know it’s over. Sorry. _(He jerks his head at the still open door.)_ We can go.

SHERLOCK: No, no… that’s not what I meant.

JOHN _(quickly):_ Okay.

_There’s a slightly awkward pause, then John nods towards the kitchen._

JOHN: There’s lunch for you, too. It’s in the fridge if you want it.

SHERLOCK: Oh. Thanks. _(He gestures vaguely in the direction of “outside”.)_ I’ve just had some.

_He walks over to his armchair and lowers himself into it, crossing his legs and putting his bandaged hands together as if to sink straight into one of his reveries. John pivots on the spot to face him._

JOHN: Where have you been all morning, then?

SHERLOCK: West Hendon.

JOHN _(genuinely surprised):_ Really?

SHERLOCK: Yes. I felt a moral obligation to pose for a selfie with Chantelle Warren for her Facebook page.

JOHN _(with a bark of laughter):_ God, you didn’t!

SHERLOCK: Why not? I solved her case, didn’t I?

JOHN: You made her look like an attention-seeking little liar!

SHERLOCK _(indignantly):_ Then I had something to make up for, didn’t I?

JOHN _(soberly):_ Well, yes. _(With a hint of a smile)_ And look, you survived.

SHERLOCK: I found her company marginally less insufferable than her purple handbag suggested it would be.

JOHN _(serious again):_ Is she okay, though?

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. They’re tough, the Warrens.

_Meanwhile, Rosie seems to have lost interest in her new toy set, and is curiously eyeing the fire. John, noticing it, picks up a couple of pots, turns them upside down and starts stacking them on top of each other._

JOHN: Look, Rosie. Nelson’s Column! _(Rosie’s attention safely arrested again, he turns back to his friend.)_ And what about the dance school girls? It really is over, isn’t it?

SHERLOCK: Oh yes. The Met’s Child Abuse people took the Kensington School of Dance by storm last night. They rescued all remaining girls, and took them to a safe refuge.

JOHN _(with a sigh of relief):_ Thank goodness.

SHERLOCK: And Mr Koshkin and his old comrades were all rounded up before nightfall, too. Once they realised that the Kremlin’s protecting hand had been withdrawn from them, they couldn’t stop talking. They’re all blaming each other now, trying to save their own skins.

JOHN _(with a disdainful laugh):_ Yeah, much good that’ll do them. _(He puts another pot on top of the tower. Rosie watches in fascination.)_ And Katia? What about her?

_Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately. John looks up at him, surprised at his friend’s silence._

SHERLOCK _(a little evasively):_ She’s safe, too.

JOHN _(suspiciously):_ Where is she, Sherlock?

SHERLOCK: HMP Downview.

_John stares at his friend in disbelief. Rosie chooses this moment to knock over the tower with a loud clatter._

JOHN _(aghast):_ She’s in a bloody _prison?_

SHERLOCK _(pedantically):_ Young Offender Institution.

JOHN: That _is_ a bloody prison.

SHERLOCK: Which makes it the best place for her to be right now.

JOHN _(appalled):_ Are you kidding?

SHERLOCK: Not in the least.

JOHN: They can’t just chuck her in prison, Sherlock! She’s traumatised!

SHERLOCK: And she’s also committed an act of grievous bodily harm with intent, right under the noses of half a dozen law enforcement officers. Bit of a stretch, asking them to ignore that. Even given the extenuating circumstances, she’s looking at a custodial sentence of three or four years for the attack on Grunerova. Might as well start now.

JOHN: That’s -

_He breaks off, speechless with indignation. Sherlock, however, remains apparently unmoved._

SHERLOCK: Look at it from Katia’s point of view, John. The main players of the Red Circle have been arrested, but who knows how far their network really extends, and how many of their underlings they may still be able to control, even from custody. There’s nowhere safer for her right now.

_He levers himself out of his chair and down onto the floor, and starts gathering the scattered toy pots, some of which have rolled dangerously close to the fireplace._

JOHN: But there’d have been -

SHERLOCK: Alternatives? No. You know how human trafficking cases go. Katia would get witness protection until the trials end, but then? She’d be kicked out of the country then, back to Russia, back into the care of parents or authorities who could never protect her in the first place, and who certainly won’t be able to protect her when the remainder of the Red Circle come after her to take revenge. Trust me, she’s better off where she is.

_He replaces the lid on a little saucepan and hands it to his goddaughter. Rosie grasps the saucepan and turns it upside down, watching with glee as the lid falls off._

SHERLOCK _(to John):_ At Downview, she won’t be able to get out, but nobody will be able to get in to her, either. The only visitors she’ll have will be those that she herself has agreed to see.

JOHN: Who’ll visit her? Her brother is dead, and she knows nobody in this country.

SHERLOCK: Not yet.

JOHN _(with another incredulous laugh):_ How much more prison visiting are you planning to cram into your schedule?

SHERLOCK: None at all. What would Katia want with me? _(With a smile)_ But I can tell you in confidence that the Warrens can’t wait to meet their mysterious lodger at last.

JOHN _(astonished):_ What?

SHERLOCK: Are you surprised? I hadn’t even told them half of Katia’s story when Chantelle and her mother had already as good as adopted her. For all I know, they’re at Downview right now, badgering the governor for an ad hoc visiting permit. You could hardly find a more suitable object for Mrs Warren’s massive maternal instincts to latch onto. Besides, Katia will need a place to stay when she gets out, and The Warren is a big house.

_He reaches across to assist Rosie, who is now absorbed in a completely uncoordinated effort at replacing the lid on the pot._

JOHN _(sceptically):_ When she gets out in three or four years’ time, you mean?

SHERLOCK: Yes. Don’t you see? She’ll be of age then, and in charge of her own life. She'll have the chance to catch up with her schooling at Downview, and there’s no reason why she shouldn’t stay in the UK to complete her education if she's done well there. You won’t find many people who could correctly recall the complete dancing men alphabet under extreme stress, the way she did in order to communicate with Andrei. Someone, somewhere, will recognise that talent.

JOHN _(after a moment):_ You sound like you’ve had all that planned out for a long time.

SHERLOCK _(with a shrug):_ Making a virtue of necessity.

_He starts building a new pot tower for Rosie._

JOHN: But you knew all along what Katia had in that bottle, didn’t you?

SHERLOCK _(his eyes on the tower he’s building):_ Yes, of course.

JOHN: How?

SHERLOCK: Because the bottle had the label missing. The CCTV at the airport showed that very clearly.

_With infinite care, he places the toy kettle on top of the fragile construction, then leans back to let Rosie demolish it again. She promptly does._

JOHN _(to Sherlock, over the clattering noise):_ Sorry, what?

SHERLOCK: The label, John. There was the label of a water bottle in the bin in the attic room at The Warren, but the bottle itself was missing, cap and all. Since Katia never left that room until the Red Circle’s men came to take her away, much less took her rubbish outside, she had to have taken it with her.

JOHN: But how did you know what was in it?

SHERLOCK: That wasn’t a big leap. Mrs Warren’s mention of the disappearance of her drain cleaner was telling enough in itself. But when we found its empty container in the bin, too, it wouldn’t even have needed the chemical burns on the surface of the table to prove that Katia had mixed a very special cocktail there.

JOHN: Caustic soda, in a drinks bottle.

SHERLOCK: Exactly.

JOHN: What for? Self-defence?

SHERLOCK: More likely as a last way out.

_John winces at the idea, deeply dismayed._

JOHN: Christ.

SHERLOCK: I admit that I really hadn’t expected to see her again alive, once she’d gone from The Warren. Andrei’s death and her own recapture by the Red Circle seemed to be exactly the eventuality that she’d armed herself against. But when we saw her walking through the airport terminal, still clutching the bottle, it became clear to me that Lestrade was right.

JOHN: About what?

SHERLOCK: About the lies they must have told her to make her come along quietly.

JOHN: She really didn’t know Andrei was dead, did she?

SHERLOCK: No, not until she heard Grunerova being arrested on the charge of his murder. Madame had told Katia that they’d struck a deal with her brother, that they’d let them both go back home to Russia in peace, as long as they promised to keep silent about what went on at the Kensington School of Dance. She bought it.

JOHN: But she still took the bottle with her to the airport.

SHERLOCK: As insurance, if you like. Quite justified, as it turned out.

JOHN _(a little bitterly):_ And I thought we were running to save her life.

SHERLOCK _(defensively):_ We _were_ running to save her life. There was no knowing what form exactly her desperation would take when she heard of her brother’s death.

JOHN _(reproachfully):_ But you didn’t stop her once you saw what she was going to do.

SHERLOCK: Neither did you. Nobody did.

JOHN _(pointedly):_ _I_ tried.

_Sherlock takes a deep breath - and then just as deliberately releases it again._

SHERLOCK: They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind, John. Who am I to try and alter the course of nature?

_John pulls a face, struggling with himself whether to let this go or not. He looks down at his own marred fingers, then across at his friend’s worse ones, and shakes his head again._

_Meanwhile Sherlock, sprawling full-length on the floor to reach the toy box, tips it onto its side. It now resembles an oven with its door standing open._

SHERLOCK _(to Rosie):_ What about a cake now, Rosie?

_He hands Rosie a pot and spoon as if to mix some imaginary dough in it. She immediately puts the spoon in her mouth and suckles on it._

JOHN _(after a moment):_ Sherlock?

SHERLOCK _(busy retrieving the cake pan from the ruins of the latest pot tower):_ Hmm?

JOHN _(earnestly):_ We really can’t do this anymore.

_Sherlock looks up at his friend in surprise._

JOHN: Okay, correction. You can, but I can’t. Even without radioactive poisoning, two decent men died, and a woman lost her eyesight. It’s a miracle that we came out of this with no more than a few burns on our hands.

_Sherlock puts the little cake pan down, giving John his full attention again._

SHERLOCK _(in a deliberately sensible tone):_ John, I’m sure you realise that none of us were ever in actual physical danger at any point during this case. Not you, not me, certainly not Rosie, and not even Mycroft.

JOHN: It sure felt like it.

SHERLOCK _(immediately):_ Insufficient data. Once we had the full picture -

JOHN _(quietly):_ Please don’t try.

_Sherlock opens his mouth to object, but closes it again when he sees from John’s expression that he really means it._

JOHN: And the only reason why we all came out unscathed was because your brother fixed things for us.

SHERLOCK _(quickly):_ That’s fine, I‘ve -

JOHN: - relied on him to do that for decades? I know you have. But that doesn’t make it right. For me, I mean _. (He straightens up a little, as if rallying for an argument.)_ I can't take advantage like that **.** Nor - _(with a significant look at his daughter)_ \- shirk my responsibilities. No, really - I can’t ask _your_ brother to keep pulling stunts like that for me. He was sailing far too close to the wind there, playing hide and seek with his own and the Russian government at the same time.

SHERLOCK _(lightly):_ Well, the former he does on a daily basis, and the latter is something he's been aching to do for a long time. He'd of course insist that he's above such base impulses, but he definitely still has an axe to grind with the Russians over the Litvinenko case. He may have accepted that that one will never get cleared up officially, but he wasn’t going to say no to some small retaliation when the opportunity offered. 

JOHN: But seriously - what if anyone had called his bluff? What if anyone still does?

SHERLOCK: Nobody will. He’s Mycroft.

JOHN: But doesn’t he have better things to do than risk upsetting the fragile balance between the world's superpowers in order to protect two idiots and a baby?

SHERLOCK _(emphatically):_ He _loved_ it, John. He’s _happy_ when he’s sailing close to the wind. And you know it, because so are you.

_John, from his place on the floor, very deliberately nudges one of the larger toy pots with his foot. With a faint clatter, it bumps into the teakettle._

SHERLOCK (generously): Touché.

 _He smiles, but John doesn’t respond in kind, so the smile disappears again very quickly. When John makes no move to say anything, Sherlock gets to his feet and walks over to the right-hand window. He looks up at the sky for a moment, then down into the street, and finally turns_ _back to the room with his arms folded across his chest. When he speaks, his voice is suddenly rather grave, too, and also_ _slightly tense, as if he's unsure how his words will be received._

SHERLOCK: John – when you said just now that you can't do this anymore – don’t think that I haven‘t wondered recently, too. More than once, in fact. And you’re right. But the thing is – my work, the detective work, it's -

JOHN _(resigned):_ \- too much fun to give it up, I understand that.

SHERLOCK: No. It's not a question of fun. It's a question of identity. It's – _(He clears his throat awkwardly.)_ It's literally the only thing I know.

_John's head snaps up in surprise._

JOHN: What? That’s nonsense, Sherlock. Look at your brain! You could be _anything!_

SHERLOCK _(a little sadly):_ My brain, that completely deleted the entire existence of not only one but two human beings, and the two that had the greatest impact on my life at the time? No, John. My brain is not nearly as reliable as I once thought it was, and it never will be. _(Seeing John make a move to protest, he continues quickly.)_ No, don't get me wrong. It’s not completely useless, of course. I can still listen to how someone describes a person moving around their house and realise they’re actually two different ones. I can still use my eyes to see the difference between happy chickens and stressed-out chickens. And I can still figure out how someone lost their toe when the data is in plain view. But what else is that good for? _(He squares his shoulders, as if steeling himself to face an uncomfortable truth.)_ It’s okay, though. You’re right, the answer _is_ to scale back. Ionce thought I had to keep upping the dose,to keep asking for more, for greater goals, for higher stakes. But now I don't. _(He attempts another smile.)_ Consulting detective. The only one in the world. Glad to be alive, and glad to be of use _,_ but glad to know his limits.

JOHN _(quietly):_ Are you serious?

SHERLOCK: Never more so.

JOHN _(doubtfully):_ And you’d really be content with that?

SHERLOCK: I have a great example.

JOHN: What do you mean?

SHERLOCK:I know a man who once thought that his life no longer had a meaning nor a value, just because he couldn’t be a battlefield surgeon any more. But he’s fine now. He’s got a beautiful little girl, he’s got friends, he lives in the city he loves, and when he goes to work at his clinic every morning, he knows that at the end of the day, he’ll have made at least a little difference to at least some people’s lives. Small triumphs, you know. If he can do it, then so can I.

_John bites his lip and looks down, deeply touched. If his eyes were visible, they’d probably glisten suspiciously. Rosie, beside him, sits very still and looks on with wide eyes, as if she senses the momentousness of the situation._

SHERLOCK: There'll never be absolute safety. You know I'd never make a vow of that sort again. But let me make a declaration of intent at least: We may still end up sailing close to the wind now and again. But we don't have to seek it out. And if, _if_ one day we get into too deep waters again without meaning to, then Mycroft _will_ bail us out. Both of us. All three of us. _(John looks up again sharply, but Sherlock preempts any protest. Earnestly)_ John, please don't think that Mycroft’s definition of the term ‘family’ is any less comprehensive than mine these days. Remember what he offered to do for us at Sherrinford.

JOHN: For you.

SHERLOCK: No. For us. He _is_ a very decent big brother. To anyone who’ll let him.

_At this, John actually blushes, conflicting feelings of guilt and relief chasing each other across his face._

SHERLOCK _(attempting a light tone again):_ And besides, protecting fools is literally the only thing _he_ knows. Let’s not rob him of his raison d’être.

JOHN _(with the beginnings of a smile):_ Were you really trying to teach him to fence?

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ “Trying” being the operative word.

_John starts laughing, almost a little hysterically, then shakes his head as if to rid himself again of the impulse._

JOHN: Sorry. Mental images.

SHERLOCK _(with a little grin):_ I know. _(Serious again)_ Well – so, d’you think -

_He breaks off awkwardly, as if hesitating to put the question into words because the answer may be “no”._

_John, still on the floor, shifts and gingerly stretches out his legs for a more comfortable position. Accidentally this time, his leg brushes against the pot and the kettle again, making them clatter faintly. He reaches out and straightens them, running his hand thoughtfully over them, then looks up again at his friend._

JOHN: I’ve got one condition.

SHERLOCK _(apprehensively):_ Yes?

JOHN: No more rooftop chases. _(A little apologetically, massaging his left shoulder)_ I’m too old for those.

SHERLOCK: If you say so.

_His tone is sober enough, but the relief in it is unmistakable._

JOHN _(doubtfully):_ Cross your heart and hope to die?

SHERLOCK _(straight-faced):_ Not yet, please. Wasn’t that rather your point?

JOHN: No, but seriously?

SHERLOCK: Yes, seriously. We started with one. Seems only fitting that we should end with one, too.

 

* * *

 

 _**Whitehall. A rooftop terrace on one of the government buildings lining the venerable street –** _ _the very same place that Sherlock went to to reacquaint himself with the heartbeat of his city after his return from exile in “The Empty Hearse”. Dusk is falling, shrouding the gables and turrets of the surrounding buildings in a cold, bluish winter light. To one side loom the rooftops of Admiralty House. To the other the massive structure of the Ministry of Defence towers over its neighbours. And in the distance, Big Ben rises out of the sea of brick and mortar. Its clock shows just before five p. m._

_Sherlock and John stand there side by side, gazing out over their city in silence while Rosie, on John's arm, nibbles at the cuff of her jacket, as yet unsusceptible to the magnificence of their surroundings. A gust of wind ruffles the two friends' hair. Rosie snuggles up to her father for shelter. Big Ben begins to strike five o'clock._

_After the second quarter, John speaks up._

JOHN: I'll miss the view, though. London's never prettier than from high up.

SHERLOCK: Mmh. But we can always come up here when we feel like it. No matter what -

MYCROFT'S VOICE _(off-screen, calling from a distance):_ Would you two mind coming back in here now? I’m getting a chill!

_The two friends look at each other and grin impishly while Big Ben completes its five deep chimes._

JOHN _(quietly, but with a profound happiness in his voice):_ Yeah. No matter what.

 

THE END

November 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was, in a sense, a group effort. A big thank you to everyone who has provided inspiration and support throughout the writing process, great or small! 
> 
> First and foremost, my heartfelt gratitude goes to [RubraSaetaFictor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RubraSaetaFictor), for her truly selfless beta reading – always quick, always helpful, always patient. Without the constant encouragement of her feedback, this story would never have been completed.
> 
> [maryagrawatson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson) first drew my attention to the cut on Mycroft’s thumb in “The Final Problem”. She also helped me discover the wonders of the Tesco groceries delivery service, and thus provided my mental image of Mrs Warren. And she kept cheering me on throughout the writing process.  
> [Emelia's_Secret_Twin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelias_Secret_Twin) wanted a fencing Sherlock. She’s hopefully content now with getting two fencing Holmeses for the price of one.  
> [3Seconds](http://archiveofourown.org/users/3seconds) is largely responsible for my headcanon concerning the faces and backstory for Stella and Ted.  
> And [Wynsom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom) gracefully declined to trademark the idea of transferring the Litvinenko polonium poisoning case to the “Sherlock” universe, even though she wrote and posted her story [“Life after Death”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11773269/chapters/26542722) long before I’d ever got to properly developing that aspect in my own. 
> 
> And last but not least, thank you to all commenters, old friends and new faces alike. I treasure your feedback immensely. 
> 
> Happy Christmas, everyone!


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